The bell over the door doesn’t ring anymore.
The stainless-steel shell still catches the light along Lancaster Avenue, its curved edges reflecting passing headlights in thin, wavering lines. But the windows are dark now. No coffee steam, no low murmur of conversation, no steady rhythm of a spatula on a griddle. Traffic still surges past on Route 30, just as it always has—but here, at least, something has stopped.
Frazer has always existed in that space between motion and pause…