Between Glass and Sky

I wanted to love this, and parts of it are beautifully observed — the small rituals, the tactile details about tools and glass, even Sir Socks the raccoon are delightful. But overall I found the story's arc disappointingly familiar and a little too tidy. The central choice (big demo for the firm vs daughter's rooftop show) telegraphs the emotional beat from a mile away, and the 'show fractures into crisis' rescue feels like a device to force reconciliation rather than a natural escalation. There are moments when the prose wanders into purple patches about the city 'stacking' itself, which slows down momentum instead of deepening character. Also, a few plot conveniences stand out: how the glossy firm’s stakes are never fully explained, and how quickly estrangement melts away after a single dramatic night. If you enjoy lyrical descriptions of urban craft and don't mind an arc that's a bit predictable, you'll find charm here. If you're after sharper plotting and less sentimentality, this might frustrate you.

Between Glass and Sky is one of those quiet dramas that accumulates feeling in the margins. Jonah isn't defined by a single gesture; he's built out of ritual and repetition — naming his ropes, the precise moment a pane of glass 'settles,' the harness that bites under his thighs. These are the things that make him believable and sympathetic before the plot even tilts. I particularly liked how the city itself reads like a character: tram bells and street food scent drifting upward, an overgrown planter hosting Sir Socks the raccoon, the skyline stacking like carefully fitted scales. That sensory work makes the later crisis feel visceral rather than contrived. The moral dilemma — career-defining demo for a glossy firm versus his estranged daughter's rooftop showcase — is familiar, yes, but the way it's handled avoids cliché. The storytelling trusts the reader with small moments: Jonah tugging a line, the names whispered to his ropes, a glide of a suction pad that tells you everything about his experience. When the show fractures and people are in real danger, Jonah's trade ceases to be only livelihood and becomes a language of rescue; the rescue sequences read like choreography, technical and humane. The reconciliation with his daughter is the most moving part because it arrives as a consequence of his work rather than a tidy moral lesson. My only quibble is that a few secondary characters could be a touch sharper — the property manager and the glossy firm feel a bit flattened — but that's minor. This is a book for anyone who loves craft, cities, and stories about how practical skill can repair more than physical things.

Loved it. Jonah talking to his ropes like they're houseplants cracked me up and then made me cry five pages later 😅. The raccoon, Sir Socks, is a whole mood — that bottle-cap moment is cinematic. The rooftop scenes are so vivid: the hiss of the tram bells, the scent of seaweed pancakes, the way glass 'starts doing the honest thing' — the prose is smart and slightly melancholic. When the daughter's showcase collapses and Jonah becomes the guy who literally holds things together, the emotional pay-off lands hard. Short, sharp, and oddly comforting. Would read the whole thing.

Concise, tactile, and smart. The excerpt nails a blue-collar intimacy — Jonah naming lines out loud, the smell of engine grease, the raccoon turning a bottle cap — details that make the rooftop world tangible. I appreciated the structural contrast between the glossy firm demonstration and the daughter's grassroots rooftop showcase; it sets up the moral stakes cleanly. The pacing in the opening is deliberate but never boring, and the rescue turning his trade into salvation feels earned because of the careful craft descriptions earlier. A well-constructed drama about work-life balance and community.

This story quietly stole my heart. Jonah's rituals — naming his ropes “Maggie” and “Phillip,” the small absurdities like talking to Sir Socks the raccoon — make him feel lived-in and real. The scene where he feels the glass “settle” under his palm is gorgeous; you can almost hear the city exhale with him. I loved how the author balances technical detail (harness seat biting, suction pads, ceramic carabiners) with domestic touches like the tram bells and seaweed pancakes drifting up from the street. The climax — the rooftop showcase fracturing and Jonah turning his craft into a tool for rescue — was tense and satisfying: it's rare to see a profession treated as both poetic and practical in service of family repair. The reunion with his daughter isn't melodrama; it's earned, messy, and hopeful. Atmosphere, voice, and the tactile sense of working on glass make this one of the more humane urban dramas I've read lately.