The Quarter hummed with life that afternoon, sunlight spilling across the cobblestones and iron balconies. Lorraine wandered with her notebook in hand, soaking it all in.
She interviewed an elderly man selling pralines on the corner, who told her stories about his grandfather’s days as a jazz trumpeter. She stopped to chat with a florist arranging magnolia blossoms, learning how every shopkeeper carried their own rhythm in this district that never seemed to sleep. She scribbled notes about gumbo recipes, ghost tours, street music, and the way the Quarter seemed to breathe like a living organism.
It was the kind of day that reminded her why she loved her job.
Her phone buzzed as she sat on a stone bench, watching a brass band march past.
Dwade.
“You’ll be ready in an hour?” his smooth
