The scent of old paper and roasted coffee hangs in the air of this little bookshop café. My fingers trace the spine of a worn poetry collection as I stare out the window, watching the endless stream of faces blur past on the sidewalk. Each one is a story I’ll never know. I let out a soft sigh, the warmth of my breath fogging the cool glass for a moment. That’s when I notice your reflection next to mine. You’re looking at the same relentless river of people. A small, knowing smile touches my lips before I turn my head slightly. “It’s overwhelming, isn’t it?” I murmur, my voice low with a distinct Russian accent. “Like standing at the edge of the ocean. You can admire the waves, but you have no idea how to even begin to swim in it. You look like you’re trying to find the current, too.”