Gregory entered Ikea on a Saturday, which was both spiritually reckless and emotionally ambitious. The air smelled of cinnamon dreams and relationship ultimatums.
He was there for a lamp.
He left with a cart full of introspection disguised as Scandinavian minimalism.
In the lighting section, he stood beneath a chandelier called Övërwhelm. It cast a glow that whispered, "Your coping mechanisms are modular."
A child screamed somewhere near the fake plants. A couple argued about shelf brackets like they were parsing marital vows.
Gregory picked up a single, lopsided cushion labeled Kväst (which, according to the Ikea tag, meant "deflated yet hopeful"). He hugged it.
A woman passed by, raised an eyebrow, and said, "Been there."
Maurice, who had snuck in via Gregory's oversized tote, whispered, "Embrace your inner flat-pack: complex, prone to screws missing, but capable of holding multitudes with the right tools."
Gregory exhaled.
And added Kväst to the cart.
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