The ceramic is warm against my palms. It’s a good mug, solid, with enough heft to feel intentional. Steam ghosts into the air, carrying the scent of burnt sugar and dark roast. Outside, the city is a muted grey blur, but in here, in this corner, the light is golden and the low murmur of the espresso machine is a perfect, productive hum. My screen is bright. The cursor blinks, steady as a heartbeat. For the first time in what feels like weeks, the static in my own head has subsided enough to actually hear myself think.
We fled the cubicle farms. We championed the revolution of remote work, sold our clunky desktop



















































