Bits and Pieces

“Sometimes a good morning breaks apart so slowly, you don’t notice until all the nice bits are scattered and quiet.”

It wasn’t a shopping centre or a shiny plaza with echoing tiles and cold air-conditioning. It was just a tired little street tucked behind the main road—independent shops with cracked windows and signs that hadn’t been updated in decades, the sort of place that had outlived its prime but carried on anyway, stubborn and unfussed.

The awnings were bleached to shades that hinted at former brightness—faded reds and greens like old memories. The footpaths were uneven, with tree roots heaving the cement into slight, crooked waves. It was the kind of street where time didn’t rush and people didn’t either.

We walked past a barber’s shop, its pole spinning slowly, stubbornly, as if it had always done so and would keep spinning even if the rest of the world gave up. A bakery next door was busy producing smells I wanted to crawl inside of—warm sugar, cinnamon, the slight tang of burnt crusts. A sign out front promised “Hot Pies and Cold Drinks” in hand-painted letters, the paint peeling at the edges but still trying its best.

Mum stopped in front of the newsagent. The door had a bell that jangled too loudly, like it was excited to have company. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of ink and old paper, a fragrance that made me think of forgotten libraries and rainy afternoons spent drawing things that never quite looked the way they were supposed to.

The man behind the counter looked up from his newspaper with the mild interest of someone who’d seen enough to never be surprised. He nodded once, wordless, and went back to his page.

Mum wandered slowly through the narrow aisles, pausing at racks of greeting cards and candles and novelty pens with feathers and rubbery creatures on top. She had that look again—like she was searching for something she hadn’t quite defined yet, something that might fix things, if only she could find the right shape for it.

After a few minutes, she crouched down in front of a small stand of notebooks and pulled one out. It glittered purple and silver in the dim light, the cover catching and holding it like a secret. She chose a matching pen with a silky tassel that fluttered like a streamer in a parade.

She turned to me, still kneeling, and held them out as though they were a rare and valuable treasure.

“For your stories,” she said. “You’ve got the best stories, Rose. I want you to have somewhere special to keep them.”

I stared at the notebook. It was beautiful—more than that, it was mine. Not second-hand or borrowed or snatched from a charity box, but chosen. Chosen for me.

“Thanks, Mum,” I whispered, hugging it tight to my chest. I could feel the cover cool against my skin, could already imagine the pen looping words into the pages like a kind of spell. I didn’t ask what kind of stories she meant. I didn’t need to. The truth was: I had both kinds—the ones with magic and the ones with shadows—and I’d need a place for both.

Mack hadn’t picked anything. He stood at the edge of the shop like he wasn’t quite part of the moment, hands deep in his pockets, eyes flicking from me to Mum and back again like he was watching a scene unfold rather than joining in.

“Go on,” Mum said to him, the words filled with forced cheer. “Pick something, Mack. Anything you like.”

Mack moved toward the postcard rack slowly, without enthusiasm. He turned it with one finger, the cards fanning out in a lazy circle, and pulled out a single one—a glossy photograph of the Brisbane River at night, all silver reflections and golden lights stretching like threads over the dark water.

“I’ll take this,” he said.

Mum’s expression flickered. Just for a second, like someone had turned on a light behind her eyes and then quickly switched it off again. “Postcards are a bit old-fashioned, aren’t they?” she said too brightly. “No one really sends postcards anymore. It’s all online these days.”

“I like them,” Mack said. His voice was low but steady.

“But you can’t send it anywhere, Mack.” Her tone shifted, the brightness straining. “We’re not really staying in Brisbane. We’re just... passing through.”

“I know,” he said. And that was all.

Just two words, but they seemed to land heavily. He wasn’t arguing. He wasn’t hoping. He was just acknowledging a truth that didn’t need decorating.

They stared at each other for a moment—Mum, still holding the glittery pen wrapper in one hand, and Mack, postcard limp in his fingers. It was like watching two people trying to communicate across different languages. No shouting. No tears. Just quiet understanding that left no room for comfort.

The man at the counter cleared his throat gently, pretending to be invisible.

Mum turned away first, and the movement was abrupt, almost sharp. She walked to the counter, her footsteps clipped and quick, and placed the notebook and pen and postcard down without a word.

“Suit yourself,” she said finally, her voice flat now, like all the colour had drained out of her mouth.

And just like that, the magic of the morning—the fresh air, the sun, the sweet grass and drifting clouds—began to fade around the edges. Not vanished, not yet. But dulled. Like a light slowly dimming. Like something precious slipping just slightly out of reach.

We walked to the bakery next, the warm, buttery air spilling out through the open doorway and wrapping around us like a memory. It smelled like childhood should—sweet, golden, safe. The scent pulled us forward as if the air itself had fingers gently tugging us in by the sleeves.

Behind the glass display, everything was arranged with care that felt almost reverent—vanilla slices with layers so perfect they looked drawn rather than baked, finger buns thick with glossy pink icing that promised sugar rushes and sticky hands, and meat pies whose flaky pastry tops still shimmered slightly from the oven's heat. The kind of display that made you want everything even before you'd had breakfast.

Mum lingered just a moment longer than usual before pointing to her choices. “One vanilla slice, three finger buns,” she said softly, as though speaking louder might break whatever spell the morning had cast. “And... one meat pie, please. To go. For later.”

Later. That word again. It had become a kind of code—vague, elastic, always stretching away from us. Later meant dinner. Later meant in case we couldn’t stop. Later meant if things changed again.

She handed the paper bag to me with unspoken instructions not to crush it, and I held it like it was precious, because it was. Not just because of the food, but because of what it meant—this tiny gesture of indulgence, this hint of what things used to be like. A spontaneous bakery run on a weekend morning. Something that felt almost like love, or at least like steadiness.

Outside the chemist, Mum came to a halt so abruptly that Mack bumped into her shoulder.

“What—” he began, but she cut him off with a hand that sliced through the air in front of her chest.

“Wait here,” she said, eyes fixed on the door like it had challenged her to a duel.

And then she was gone—through the glass, swallowed into the bright, sterile interior where rows of white shelves stood like soldiers guarding secrets.

I looked at Mack, who didn’t say anything, just rolled his eyes in a way that said this wasn’t the first time she’d gone into a place and left us behind without explanation. I found a nearby bench and lowered myself onto it, setting the bakery bag on my lap and opening it with the reverence it deserved.

I pulled out a finger bun and broke off a small corner, setting it on the bench beside me.

“For you,” I whispered to Ribbons, who perched dutifully at my side, her button eyes fixed on the offering like she was grateful even if she couldn’t eat it.

The icing stuck to my fingers, sugary and artificial and perfect. The bread was soft and faintly warm, and each bite felt like a memory being restored. It wasn’t just good—it was earned. A reward for something we couldn’t quite name but had survived nonetheless.

Mack leaned against the wall, arms folded, flicking the corner of his postcard with sharp, repetitive motions. He wasn’t even looking at it—just moving it, like a nervous tick. A loop of energy that had nowhere else to go.

We waited. And waited. People came and went, the bell over the chemist door jingling each time, but Mum didn’t reappear. I tried not to fidget. The gentle warmth of the sun had shifted, pressing down on us more insistently now, and the bench had grown hot beneath my thighs.

When she finally stepped out, it was like the world held its breath for half a second. Her hands were empty. No small plastic bag. No receipt. No evidence that she’d done anything at all inside that shop.

Mack spotted it immediately.

“Did you forget something?” he asked, his voice light but edged with curiosity sharpened by experience.

She blinked like she'd forgotten we were there.

“No,” she said too quickly. “It’s all sorted.”

Mack frowned. “Then where is it?”

She looked at him, and for a heartbeat I thought she might lie more convincingly. But her mouth twisted—just a little—and her tone turned sour. “None of your business.”

The words hit like snapped elastic. Too sharp. Too defensive.

Mack straightened, sliding his hands out of his pockets. “It is if we’re in trouble.”

Her lips parted—maybe to deny it, maybe to scold him—but nothing came. For a second, she just stared at him like she was seeing something new, something unfamiliar in her son’s face. Then she turned on her heel without another word and started walking.

We followed, slower this time. She didn’t wait.

As we neared the post office—a squat building with a red postbox leaning slightly like it was tired of being useful—I saw her veer toward the public bin. She reached into her pocket and drew something out—a small, crumpled piece of paper, maybe two, maybe more—and shoved them deep inside the metal bin, hand moving with quick, furtive jerks.

It wasn’t litter. It was evidence. She was getting rid of it like it meant something, like it could be used against her.

I looked at Mack. He’d seen it too, of course. His mouth was set in that firm, silent line I knew so well. He didn’t say anything, just walked beside me, his hand brushing lightly against mine for a moment—just enough to remind me that he was still there, still watching, still trying to hold the thread of whatever we were unravelling.

I wanted to ask her. I really did. I wanted to say, What did you buy? What don’t you want us to see? But the way she walked—shoulders bunched, head tilted slightly down like she was bracing for a blow—made me hold the words back.

We walked the rest of the way in silence, the kind of silence that had mass and shape and shadow. The bakery bag in my hand rustled with every step, the finger buns shifting inside like they were uneasy too.

The walk back to the flat was different.

Not just because the sun was higher and the air had taken on that late-afternoon thickness that made everything feel slightly too still, but because none of us spoke.