Chapter 1: The Morning Pour

The bell above the door chimed, a little too loud for eight in the morning. Jake looked up from the espresso machine, wiping his hands on a cloth that had seen better days. The playlist was doing its usual thing — some lo-fi track with a guitar riff that felt like a lazy Sunday afternoon.

She walked in, a bit hesitant, scanning the menu board as if she hadn't already decided. Jake smiled, the kind that didn't demand anything. "Take your time," he said, and turned back to the grinder.

When she finally stepped up to the counter, she ordered a flat white with oat milk. No sugar. Jake nodded, already reaching for the cup. He liked that she knew what she wanted, even if it took a moment to say it.

He worked the machine with practiced ease — tamp, pull, steam. The milk hissed and swirled into a smooth microfoam. He poured it slowly, tilting the cup just so, and ended with a small fern leaf in the crema. He slid it across the counter. "Here you go."

She looked at the foam art, then at him. "Thanks."

"Sure. Have a good one."

She took her coffee to a seat by the window, and Jake went back to wiping down the counter. The morning passed like it always did — a steady rhythm of orders, small talk, and the occasional regular who wanted to chat about the weather or the new album he'd been listening to. He didn't think much of her, except that she drank her coffee slowly, and she didn't look at her phone the whole time she was there.

The next morning, she came back. Same time, same hesitation at the door. This time she walked straight to the counter. "Flat white, oat milk, no sugar?" Jake asked, one eyebrow raised.

She blinked, then smiled, a little surprised. "Yeah. You remembered."

"It's my job," he said, but he was already pulling the shot. He made the leaf again, a little bigger this time. When he handed it over, he noticed she had a small notebook in her hand, the cover worn at the edges.

"Writing?" he asked, before he could stop himself.

She tucked the notebook behind her arm. "Just notes."

Jake nodded, not pushing. "Well, the corner table's free. It's got the best light."

She took the table, and he watched her from the corner of his eye as he steamed milk for the next order. She did write, he realized — quick, messy strokes that she'd pause over, then erase with the heel of her hand.

For a week, she came every morning. Same drink, same table, same notebook. She never asked his name, and he never asked hers. They talked in small doses — about the weather, about the playlist, about whether the fern leaf was a fern or a palm. He told her it was a fern, but he could do a palm if she wanted. She said no, the fern was fine.

On Friday, the shop was busier than usual. A group of students had taken over the big table, laughing too loud. She sat at the counter for the first time, right in front of the machine. Jake was pulling a double shot for a regular when she said, "You're a musician."

He paused. "How did you know?"

"The way you handle the machine. It's like you're playing an instrument. And the guitar case behind the counter."

Jake laughed, a little embarrassed. "Guilty. I play in a band, but we're not very good."

"What kind of music?"

"Indie rock, I guess. Like if the playlist here had lyrics and more mistakes."

She smiled, and it was the first time he saw her really smile — not polite, but genuine. "I'd like to hear it sometime."

Jake felt something shift, a small crack in the routine. "Maybe I'll bring my guitar in one day. Slow morning."

"I'd like that," she said, and then she looked down at her notebook, and the moment passed.

She finished her coffee, gathered her things, and stood up. "See you tomorrow."

"See you," Jake said. The bell chimed, and she was gone.

He looked at the empty cup she'd left on the counter. There was a small doodle on the napkin — a fern leaf, just like the one he'd poured in her foam. Under it, in tiny letters: Thanks for remembering.

Jake smiled, and tucked the napkin into his apron pocket. He still didn't know her name. But he had a feeling he'd find out soon enough.

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