It's already closing time when the front bell rings.
The sound is sharp in the quiet cafe, almost startling. Saraya is out back throwing out the trash, her footsteps crunching faintly outside. I wipe my hands on my apron and make my way to the front, expecting a straggler customer we can politely turn away.
But when I step behind the counter, I stop.
A woman stands at the threshold, silhouetted by the dim streetlight behind her. She steps inside with the kind of composure that doesn't ask for permission. A long, slate-gray coat clings to her tailored frame, and beneath it, a crisp navy blazer. Her heels click softly against the floor. She walks like a verdict.
And her eyes—those dark, sharply cut eyes—land directly on me. I freeze.
Her gaze pins me down like a needle through paper. For a second, I forget how to speak. Then I remember I'm still on duty. I clear my throat and force a brittle smile.
