Five days after her dinner with Edmund Erwell, Marron was walking through the street market with Mokko when she spotted Millie sitting on a bench, eating something that made her stop dead in her tracks.
Ice cream. Vanilla ice cream, from the looks of it. But not in a cone or a bowl.
Sandwiched between two golden-brown crackers.
Marron's breath caught. She knew those crackers. Knew the exact shade of honey-brown, the slightly sweet taste, the way they'd soften just slightly from the cold cream but still maintain enough structure to hold everything together.
Graham crackers. Or this world's equivalent.
Ice cream sandwiched between graham crackers.
The memory hit her like a wave—hot summer days on Earth, the ice cream truck's tinny music, neighborhood kids with dollar bills clutched in sticky hands. The cheapest treat you could buy. Simple. Humble. Perfect.
