π πΎπΈπ³#00π·: πππ½π³πΎππ½ πΏππΎππΎπ²πΎπ»
ππ’ππ§π§π, ππππ.
They say the city is a chessboard — every street, a move. But no one expects to find the next piece in a waffle shop.
Sundown Waffles sits in the second district, tucked between a closed tailor and a tobacconist. Neutral ground, they call it. Not officially, of course. Here, briefcases meet beneath tables, glances linger too long, and no one orders the waffles for the waffles.
The neon flickers. The windows fog. You’ve arrived just before closing.
Outside, the world spins toward another uncertain winter.
Inside, the air smells like syrup and static.
ππππ π¦ππ’π π πππ‘.
