Plan B

It smells like asphalt after rain, exhaust fumes, and a road with no return ticket. The world is buzzing with engines, drones, and phone calls, but somewhere beneath all this noise is the feeling that falling down may just be another way of flying up. There is no plan B here, but there is confidence that even from the very bottom, you can make a runway. Between the neon lights, bottles, and messages that are no longer waiting for a reply, one stubborn “ne wracam” sounds like a mantra of those who have already understood: back is only to your former self, and there is no road there.