Author: Lawrence Hurwitz, MD

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“Back in My Day”: A Field Guide to Modern Sticker Shock


There’s a sound older people make when they see a grocery receipt.

It’s not quite a groan, not quite a gasp — more like the sound you’d make if someone told you a gallon of milk now costs more than your first apartment.

It’s the sound of inflation-induced disbelief — the national anthem of anyone over seventy.

We don’t mean to complain. We simply remember when things were affordable — back before the Dow, the debt, and the avocado entered their current bull markets.

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When Everything Was a Quarter

In the late 1960s, a loaf of bread cost twenty-five cents.

Milk was eighty-nine.

A gallon of gas was thirty-six cents, and the guy pumping it cleaned your windshield without asking for a tip or your Wi-Fi password.

The subway in New York was twenty cents — the same price as a phone call or a cup of coffee, both of which involved more warmth than bandwidth.

Now the subway is $2.90, coffee is $7, and the phone call has been replaced by a “Zoom follow-up.”

Progress, apparently, has a subscription fee.

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The Egg Cream Index

But nothing, nothing, captures the moral collapse of American pricing like the Egg Cream.

In Queens, NY in 1968, an egg cream — that fizzy, chocolatey, seltzer miracle — cost 25 cents.

It was cheap, delicious, and, for reasons no one could explain, contained no egg and no cream.

Last month, I ordered one in West Palm Beach.

It was artisanal, hand-stirred, and served in a mason jar — because apparently all beverages must now resemble something from a farm wedding.

The price: $5.75.

For that, I expected at least a side of nostalgia and maybe a complimentary trip back to Queens.

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Tuition, Steak, and Other Crimes Against Memory

In 1972, you could attend a public university for about $400 a year.

Today, that might cover textbooks — and not even the digital kind.

A rib-eye steak, once $2.49 a pound, now costs $17.

Same cow. Different accountant.

I recently saw a dozen “pasture-raised, stress-free” eggs for $7.99.

At that price, they should hatch a trust fund.

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The Myth of Modern Improvement

We’re told things are better now: cars are safer, thermostats talk, and milk has 47 plant-based alternatives.

Yet somehow, the grocery cart has become a rolling cry for help.

In 1968, I bought a a used Oldsmobile Cutlass for $800.

It started with a key, not a retina scan.

Now it politely reminds me I’m late for a subscription oil change.

We used to own things.

Now we rent the illusion of ownership and call it “smart living.”

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The Economics of Outrage

Wages have risen too, but not nearly enough to prevent the occasional coronary event in the produce aisle.

The cashier asked if I’d like to “round up” for charity.

I told her, “At these prices, I am the charity.”

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Why We Complain (and Why We’re Right)

Younger people think we’re nostalgic.

We’re not.

We’re auditors of reality.

We complain not out of bitterness but because we remember a time when a splurge meant ordering dessert — not securing financing.

Our griping isn’t crankiness. It’s fiscal anthropology.

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Perspective, Adjusted for Inflation

Back in my day, a dollar was a dollar.

It could buy a newspaper, 4 cups of coffee, and the comforting illusion that adulthood came with change back.

Now, a dollar buys… anxiety.

Yes, we live longer, travel faster, and have refrigerators that snitch on us for running out of oat milk.

But deep down, I’d trade it all for one more twenty-cent subway ride, a twenty-five-cent egg cream, and the satisfying thunk of a TV turning off.

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The Moral (Priced to Sell)

So when you hear an older person sigh at the gas pump or glare at the eggs, don’t roll your eyes.

We’re not angry — we’re doing mental arithmetic in 1972 dollars.

And in 1972, math was free, too.

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Rooting for the Underdog

When you’re young, you imagine yourself winning a Nobel Prize, writing a bestselling novel, or penning the next great American song. Then life happens—you wake up one day and find yourself flipping hamburgers at Burger King. Somewhere along the way, you pivot from being the dreamer to cheering for the dreamers. You become a fan, hitching your self-esteem to the fortunes of a sports team.

I was born into a family of winners. The Yankees had just finished winning five straight World Series, and the New York Giants were NFL champions. By birthright, I should have basked in dynasties forever. But as I got older, both franchises slipped back toward mediocrity.

Then came San Diego, 1979. I was an intern at the VA hospital when the Charger Girls made a visit to cheer up patients. Let’s just say the uniforms left an impression. Later that night, after a series of code blues (possibly fueled by a collective octogenarian cortisol surge), I found myself captivated by the Chargers.

They were led by head coach Don “Air” Coryell, a visionary who believed in the forward pass when everyone else was grinding out two yards and a cloud of dust. I was in Pacific Beach when Dan Fouts and Kellen Winslow battled the Dolphins in that double-overtime playoff classic. Even Howard Cosell’s toupee seemed altered by the drama. But then came the AFC Championship in Cincinnati. The temperature hovered near absolute zero, and Fouts’ throwing hand must have felt like gripping liquid nitrogen. Another dream frozen.

Years rolled by, and the Chargers remained football’s Sisyphus—preseason darlings, postseason heartbreakers. Raiders, Broncos, Chiefs: the tormentors never changed. My kids climbed aboard the same rollercoaster, caught between optimism and despair.

There were highs: LaDainian Tomlinson breaking the rushing record. And there were lows: LT injured in the playoffs, Phillip Rivers throwing for miles in the first three quarters only to sputter in the fourth (sleep deprivation courtesy of his nine children, no doubt). And then there was the day I took my kids and a good friend to a Chargers playoff game against the Jets. The Chargers were heavy favorites, the Jets were starting a rookie quarterback named Mark Sanchez—and yet San Diego managed to miss three field goals and hand the game away. Sanchez, who basically had the job description “don’t screw it up,” walked out the hero. The long drive home felt like we were leaving a wake, only quieter.

Fast forward to last Thursday night against the Chiefs. The Chargers had lost 11 of their last one-score games. My sons, now with 30 years of futility under his belt, turned to me. I told them mine was going on 50. Yet somehow, Justin Herbert scrambled for a last-second first down and the Chargers won. For one night, euphoria reigned.

Could this be the year? Could the Chargers finally shed their underdog skin?

And if so, maybe—just maybe—this will be the year I finally win that Nobel Prize and write a hit song.

Stay tuned.

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Labor Day and the Gospel of Work (and Cupcakes)

Labor Day makes me nostalgic. Not for parades, speeches, or backyard grills, but for the curious collection of jobs that introduced me to the American workforce. Each one a rung on the ladder, or maybe a Hostess cupcake on the vending machine coil.

Lawn Mowers and Cash Drawers

It all began in Clearview, mowing lawns in the humid heat for a few bucks and a sore back. Soon after, I graduated to the high-tech world of the high school bookstore, where I operated an NCR cash register. Nothing teaches math faster than a line of impatient teenagers waiting for their pencils and erasers while you wrestle with a drawer that refuses to open.

Big City, Small Jobs

Then came New York City in the late 1960s. I worked for a large textile firm, which is a glamorous way of saying I put checks in order and filed papers. The highlight of my day wasn’t the paycheck, but the two 15-minute breaks. They were sacrosanct — mini-holidays from tedium. Best of all, the vending machine reliably delivered two Hostess cupcakes for a quarter. Talk about compound interest: two for the price of one.

The Printing Press Apprenticeship

In North Queens, I found myself sweeping scraps in a printing factory with Dominican Republican immigrants. They ran the presses; I ran the broom. I like to think I was perfecting an ancient art form — paper scrap feng shui. It was honest work, even if it left me dustier than a chalkboard.

Clerks, Typists, and Crises

As a college graduate, I became a clerk typist at a mental health clinic on Long Island, recording the anxiety and depression of young and middle-aged patients wrestling with the life crises of the mid-1970s. It was a front-row seat to the human condition, typewritten one page at a time.

I later fulfilled my dream to attend an Ivy League school — not as a student, but as a clerk typist for a renowned Organic Chemistry professor at Columbia. The pre-med students tried to peer over my shoulder to steal exam questions, as if my typewriter were some kind of oracle.

At the American Health Foundation, I typed case-control study questions about cancer prevalence. Occasionally, I was even promoted to ghostwriter for love letters from esteemed scientists — proof that the line between research and romance is thinner than a sheet of carbon paper.

A Salute to Work

Each of those jobs was a tiny cog in the great machine of American productivity. From mowing lawns to sweeping floors to transcribing science (and scandal), I contributed my modest share to the GDP. And on Labor Day, I cherish not just the opportunities this country gave me, but also the workers beside me: the immigrants, the clerks, the professors, and yes — even the vending machine that believed in generosity.

Because in the end, Labor Day isn’t just about honoring work. It’s about recognizing that every job — no matter how small, boring, or sugar-coated — is a building block in the story of our country.

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What Makes Us Human: Cooperation, Knowledge, and the Will to Survive

In the vast story of life on Earth, humans are primates—but not just any primates. We don’t outmatch our cousins in strength, speed, or sharp claws. What sets us apart is something subtler and far more powerful: the ability to learn from one another, to share knowledge, and to cooperate. That’s what has allowed us to inhabit virtually every environment on the planet—from sun-scorched deserts to icy tundra, from megacities to rainforests.

I was reminded of this truth in the most unexpected place: traveling to Southwestern Uganda and standing mere feet from a 400-pound silverback gorilla in Bwindi Impenetrable Forest. His species split from our evolutionary lineage roughly eight million years ago. The mountain gorillas have remained in the forest, perfectly suited to a single ecological niche. We, by contrast, left the trees behind—and never stopped moving.

But what enabled that journey wasn’t just intelligence. Intelligence without connection doesn’t scale. The secret to our success is shared wisdom.

History offers a cautionary tale. In 1861, the British explorers Burke and Wills attempted to cross the Australian continent from south to north. They dismissed the hard-won survival knowledge of Aboriginal Australians, particularly around the preparation of nardoo seeds. Eaten raw, nardoo contains thiaminase, an enzyme that destroys vitamin B1. The explorers suffered and died of beri-beri—not because survival knowledge was unavailable, but because they refused to accept it. Ignorance wasn’t fatal—arrogance was.

Now contrast that with our modern trek through East Africa—an exercise in cooperative survival:

• Medicine as shared defense: Vaccinations against yellow fever, permethrin-treated clothes, Malarone tablets, and a discreet cache of Imodium. All forged through centuries of global collaboration in labs and clinics.

• Engineering on four wheels: Our Toyota Land Cruisers tackled cratered dirt roads like lunar rovers. A tribute to mechanical ingenuity, tire durability, and suspension systems that earned their pay.

• Linguistic diplomacy: Our guide—part biologist, part gorilla whisperer—spoke in deep, rumbling grunts to soothe a nearby silverback. When you’re five feet from a primate that could turn you into a protein shake, fluency in Silverbackese is a highly valued skill.

• Microbial truce via refrigeration: Cold milk, safe cheese, and preserved fruit—unsung heroes in the war against gastrointestinal mutiny.

• Batwa porters, forest-born navigators: Descendants of Bwindi’s original inhabitants, the Batwa led us with quiet confidence. They knew every slippery root, every hidden turn, every slope disguised as flat ground. Without them, we might still be in the forest, tangled in vines and excuses.

• Security with edge: Kalashnikovs swung from the shoulders of armed guards like grim fashion statements. Their presence reminded us that peace, here, is maintained—not assumed. Just across the border lies Congo, and with it, a long shadow of past conflict. In Bwindi, tranquility often travels with a trigger finger.

The mountain gorillas remain tied to one patch of Earth, thriving in their ancient rhythm. We humans ventured far because we learned to listen—to guides, to science, to experience, and sometimes, finally, to each other.

We are primates. But we are the cooperative primates. The ones who teach, imitate, argue, share, and adapt.

And that—more than any tool or gene—has made us human.

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Golden Teachers: The Ones Who Shaped Us

There are people who pass through our lives and leave behind only a vague memory. And then there are teachers.

Teachers are the architects of our minds, the engineers of our values, the subtle sculptors of who we become. Their lessons go far beyond the blackboard—or these days, the touchscreen. While artificial intelligence may assist in learning, it will never replace the magic of chalk dust, a well-timed joke in a lecture, or the moment a teacher sees something in you before you ever see it in yourself.

My own journey through education is dotted with unforgettable figures who each gave me something I carry to this day.

Mr. Axelrod – 6th Grade, New York

He taught more than spelling and long division. Mr. Axelrod taught life. I remember one lesson that would never be in a textbook: “If you’re in a fight, throw the first punch.” Now, before you gasp, understand—this wasn’t about violence. It was about courage. About taking initiative. About standing up when you needed to. It was his way of saying, “Don’t let life back you into a corner.”

But Mr. Axelrod’s influence extended beyond the classroom. He was the orchestrator of student power at PS 209. He controlled and delegated the coveted positions of crossing guards—our law enforcement—and the elite slide and motion picture crews who operated the school’s visual media for assemblies. We were, to our minds, the penultimate intelligentsia—just one rung below Mrs. Pompa’s gifted “1” class. But looking back, I came to see that Mr. Axelrod gave us something perhaps more profound than gifted designation: he gave us influence. He showed us the power of controlling law enforcement and the narrative, even in the microcosm of an elementary school. A lesson in civics disguised as a privilege

Mrs. Rogart – 10th Grade Geometry

Geometry came alive in her classroom—truly alive, with chalk fragments flying in arcs that rivaled any parabolic graph. She attacked the blackboard with energy, hair in motion, proofs tumbling out until she capped it all off with an emphatic, sweeping “Q.E.D.”—which she translated as “Quite Easily Done.” With her, Euclid had flair. She made logic feel like art.

Mr. Barash – High School Social Studies

He didn’t just teach geography or history—he taught us how to think. He challenged us to look at the world with a geopolitical lens before most of us could spell “geopolitical.” He made us understand the causes behind the causes, the story behind the headline. It wasn’t about memorizing; it was about seeing.

Dr. Smith – College Biology

Now here’s a man who gave the phrase “learning in a bar” a good name. His office was the Rathskeller, a dimly lit pub in the bowels of the student union. There, over locally brewed Buffalo beer, he spun tales of fruit fly taxonomy that somehow made us want to memorize Latin names. He humanized science. He made it social, even fun.

Dr. Bugelski – Educational Psychology

It’s been over five decades, but I can still recite his lectures. That’s how vivid his theatrical delivery on learning and memory was. He didn’t just teach psychology—he performed it. He didn’t just explain the theories of learning—he embodied them. In a strange way, he implanted his lessons permanently in our neural networks.

Dr. Berman – Pharmacology, Medical School

He taught us the music of medicine. With cadence and rhythm, he embedded the pharmacopoeia into our green med student brains. We didn’t just memorize drugs—we felt them. His lessons were like a drumbeat: precise, repetitive, unforgettable.

Dr. Sam Rapaport – Hematology

Dr. Rapaport was the kind of physician we all aspired to be. A legendary hematologist with encyclopedic knowledge, yet he never lost his kindness. At the bedside, he modeled compassion with every word and gesture. His brilliance was exceeded only by his humility. I spent my career trying to emulate the grace he brought into every room.

Teachers like these are irreplaceable. Their impact is timeless.

Yes, AI may write essays, solve equations, or simulate patient encounters. But it can’t throw chalk with reckless joy. It can’t wink when you finally grasp a hard concept. It doesn’t pour wisdom into a dark corner of a campus pub. And it surely doesn’t leave behind the lasting rhythm of a mentor’s voice echoing across the decades.

Teachers are golden. Their value isn’t in their output—it’s in their humanity.

We revere them because they gave us more than facts.
They gave us ourselves.

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It Could Be Worse

We live in difficult times. You feel it in the news cycle, in conversations with friends, even in the checkout line at the grocery store. The global fabric seems frayed: rising authoritarianism threatens democracies near and far. Tariffs destabilize markets. Inflation pinches wallets. And tensions in the Middle East raise the chilling specter of yet another devastating war.

And yet… it could be worse.

I had that thought—unironically—as I was hiking Park City Mountain this week. There, perched along the trail, was a volcanic basalt boulder. Not just any rock, but a time traveler from the Tertiary Period, roughly 40 million years ago. It had ridden a wave of molten fury from the earth’s crust in an eruption that once transformed the land we now ski, hike, and bike upon. It was a reminder that while human conflict and economic angst feel overwhelming, we are lucky to be living in the eye of Earth’s geological storm.

Consider Yellowstone—now a serene wonderland of geysers and elk—yet it harbors a supervolcano that exploded catastrophically during the same epoch. Its granitic fury could, if awakened again, obliterate the continent as we know it, sending Homo sapiens the way of the trilobite. It’s not hyperbole; it’s just Earth being Earth.

Add to that the glaciations that have repeatedly frozen much of the planet and the orogenic (mountain-building) periods that reshaped entire continents. And somehow, between ice sheets and magma floods, we humans managed to rise, build cities, write symphonies, and invent espresso machines. We’re living in a surprisingly stable window between cataclysms.

So I stood there next to that black basalt relic and whispered a small, slightly ironic prayer: Kiss the ground.

Because despite man’s inhumanity to man—despite corruption, division, and our perilous flirtation with extinction—we’re still here. And we still have choices. To treat each other better. To protect what’s left. To prepare wisely. To hold fast to the fragile but precious peace between geological and geopolitical upheavals.

We owe it to those who come next. And to those rocks that remind us:

It really could be worse.

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You’ve Got a Friend: A Night with James Taylor at The Rady Shell

There are concerts, and then there are moments in time that become stitched into the fabric of your memory—softly, indelibly. That’s what happened the other night at The Rady Shell in San Diego, where James Taylor performed under a perfect spring sky.Seagulls glided above the stage, effortlessly catching the breeze like backup dancers choreographed by nature. In the distance, boats floated lazily off Coronado, their sails catching the golden hour light as Taylor’s warm voice wove its way into the ocean air.

It’s true—his voice isn’t what it once was. The range has narrowed, some edges are softer now. But none of that mattered. Because when the first chords of Sweet Baby James rang out, something vivid and unstoppable happened: the floodgates opened. I was back in college, a freshman clutching the brand-new album like it was a sacred text. I could hear myself humming Mexico as we rattled down dusty roads in North Baja, lobsters and beans on our minds. The windows were open. The future was wide.

Time folded that night, like a concert program tucked into a jacket pocket. I looked around and saw my dearest friends and my spouse—people I’ve known for most of my life—illuminated by the soft light of the moon. Their faces glowed with familiarity and joy, made more poignant by the music weaving through the air.

And then, of course, James sang You’ve Got a Friend.

There it was: the reminder, gentle and true, that while our hair may have greyed and our voices quieted, the people who’ve walked with us through all of it are still here. In the same row. Still smiling. Still listening.

As the last note drifted out over the bay, past the gulls and the sailboats and the California light, I realized the music didn’t need to be perfect—it just needed to be shared.

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The Seasons of Scams: Springtime for the Swindlers

There used to be four seasons: winter, spring, summer, and fall. Now we’ve added a fifth—scam season—and apparently, it runs year-round. The flowers bloom, the birds sing, and I get a fraudulent invoice from “McAfee” for antivirus software I never bought and never wanted. Again.

Let me back up.

It all started innocently enough. I tried to book a one-way JetBlue flight from Palm Beach to New York City. $147—not bad. I clicked through, filled in all the usual fields (name, email, seat preference, favorite childhood memory), and hit “Pay.”

Oops.

That’s literally what it said: “Oops.” A friendly, lowercase tech-glitch shrug from the algorithmic abyss.

No problem, I thought, I’ll just try again. And that’s when the real magic happened: the fare had leapt $200. That’s right—same flight, new price.

I called JetBlue’s service center (definitely not in Palm Beach), and the representative suggested logging back into the app. Apparently, that resets the price—though not in my favor. Now the ticket was just $100 higher. A bargain!

I eventually reached a supervisor who sounded genuinely sympathetic.

“If you had a confirmation number, I might be able to help.”

“That’s the point. It never confirmed.”

“Exactly.”

That kind of circular logic should come with a seat assignment.

Frustrated, I checked another airline. Jackpot: $170! Economy. I began booking—only to discover that choosing a seat would cost another $102. Want to sit together with your spouse? That’ll be $204. Otherwise, enjoy the scenic wheel bay near the luggage. Want to board before the plane takes off? That’s premium now.

But scam season wasn’t over.

That afternoon, I received an urgent text from “Florida Fast Pass” claiming I had unpaid tolls and would face legal prosecution. Imagine the irony: the real Florida Department of Transportation already has direct access to my bank account. I pay extra to drive on I-95—objectively the most terrifying stretch of pavement in the U.S.—and now scammers want in on the action? Good luck.

And just to round things out, another email arrived from McAfee—my sixth fake invoice. I’ve never had this software, I’ve never paid for it, and I’ve confirmed repeatedly that this is a scam. But the email is still persistent. Honestly, I admire the work ethic.

There’s a fine line these days between a scam and a “legitimate surcharge.” Hidden fees, surprise fare hikes, and messages threatening jail time if I don’t pay $23.70—this is the new normal.

The only place where transparency still exists is in the phishing email subject line:

“URGENT: You’re about to be charged!”

Yes. Yes, I am. One way or another.

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Moose on the Loose in Park City

Over the years, skiing with family and friends at Park City has provided a tapestry of memories filled with laughter, excitement, and the occasional brush with wildlife drama. This year, however, felt like an episode from National Geographic invaded our alpine playground.

On a crisp, sunny morning at Canyon’s Docs Run, our planned descent was unexpectedly delayed—not by the usual rogue snowboarder—but due to a moose sighting reported by ski patrol. The run was promptly blocked off for half an hour, allowing the majestic visitor time to leisurely return to its natural habitat away from the groomed trails.

The next day, as we sipped coffee and enjoyed freshly toasted Utah bagels at the condo, we discovered fresh bobcat tracks weaving through our patio, some furniture overturned as if inspected and dismissed by our nocturnal visitor. Clearly, the local wildlife had decided to reclaim their territory, turning our cozy resort into a surprising alpine jungle.

Reflecting on decades of skiing in these very mountains, the landscape hasn’t changed much, though perhaps my approach to skiing certainly has. Now firmly in what I affectionately call my ‘geriatric skiing phase,’ every run is an artful dance of taming gravity, gliding over ice, powder, and avoiding clusters of snowplow skiers and ambitious boarders. Each turn comes with whispered prayers for ligaments and tendons to remain firmly intact, a gentle negotiation between exhilaration and caution.

Yet, despite these cautionary moments, skiing continues to weave its magic, binding generations of family and friends together. Park City remains our snowy sanctuary, ever ready to gift us yet another unforgettable story—moose detours, bobcat tracks, and all.

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The Time-Traveler’s Deli Quest

When Yakov Zalewski stepped onto the bustling streets of New York City in the year 2025, he nearly fainted.

The last thing he remembered was the year 1892, fresh off a steamship from the Russian Empire, coughing from the stench of Ellis Island and dreaming of America. He had come with nothing but a bundle of clothes, a handful of kopecks, and an insatiable hunger—one that only a New York deli could satisfy.

And now? The city had transformed into a glittering beast of glass and steel. Carriages had no horses, lights blinked with strange symbols, and the people… so many people! Rushing past him with glowing rectangles in their hands, their voices clipped and fast, like an auctioneer on speed.

But Yakov had no time to be bewildered. He was on a mission.

His stomach rumbled, and he did what any self-respecting immigrant-turned-time-traveler would do: he followed his nose. The scent of pastrami, mustard, and rye called to him like an old friend.

The Deli Hunt Begins

Yakov made his way down a street called Houston, scanning the storefronts. He half-expected to see the name Ginsburg’s Delicatessen, the hole-in-the-wall where he had spent his first meager wages on a pastrami sandwich thick enough to make a rabbi weep.

Instead, he found a place called Katz’s Delicatessen. A line snaked out the door. The smell—oh, the smell! Smoky, briny, beefy goodness. He walked in, overwhelmed by neon lights and the sound of an electronic register beeping like a tiny demon.

A man behind the counter eyed him up and down.

“You want pastrami or corned beef, my friend?”

Yakov, still adjusting to this new world, placed a firm hand on the counter.

“I want the best.”

The counterman grinned. “You came to the right place.”

Moments later, a sandwich the size of a small child landed before him. Thick-cut pastrami, piled so high it looked unstable, mustard dripping down the sides, rye bread lightly toasted. He took one bite and nearly collapsed.

“This… this is the taste of home,” he whispered.

A man at the next table chuckled. “Been coming here since I was a kid. Some things never change.”

Yakov, still reeling from the flavor, nodded. “Not everything should.”

The Black & White Cookie Dilemma

Satisfied but determined, he moved on. The black and white cookie was next.

He wandered through the city, stopping a young woman with pink hair and a nose ring.

“Excuse me, where is the best black and white cookie in all of New York?”

She sized him up, noting his old-fashioned clothes, furrowed brow, and thick Eastern European accent. “You a time-traveler or something?”

“…Maybe.”

She smirked. “Try Zabar’s.”

Yakov set off, arriving at a bright, modern grocery filled with cheeses, smoked fish, and bagels so plump they looked like pillows. He found the cookies—half vanilla, half chocolate, their glaze smooth and inviting.

The first bite sent a shiver down his spine. Soft, cakey, with just the right hint of lemon.

He closed his eyes, letting the flavors wash over him. This was the dream.

A century and a half, countless changes, a city unrecognizable from the one he had first stepped into… and yet, here he was, eating the same black and white cookie, tasting the same past.

For a moment, time didn’t matter.

Some things never change.