The chill of the morning did not bother Henrik. He had come from the cold, from Rotterdam. He was concentrating on the coffee ahead of him in the café. He could smell it; he could hear the espresso machine and he could even taste it. He walked faster. As he reached the door, something caught his eye – in his peripheral vision. It made him turn his head just as the door in front of him opened and he bumped into a tall athletic brunette storming out the door. But he stepped away apologizing and she just kept on going. He looked again at what he had seen. It was a taste of home, an aging Dutch-style house, small and faded.
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