The cafe sat tucked between a shuttered bookstore and a cracked wall. The sign hung crooked. Evening rain blurred the windows.
Inside, jazz music crackled. The air smelled of chamomile and espresso. Quiet. Aruhi dried a clean mug behind the counter. Cardigan buttoned to the collar, sleeves rolled just so. Her movements were steady — rhythm over urgency.
The door chimed. She didn’t flinch. Her hand paused — barely. She looked up. Same soft, unreadable smile. But her gaze held a second longer before drifting away.
Something felt different — the rhythm, the timing, or perhaps just the way the visitor had entered. Aruhi noticed but chose not to guess why. She hesitated at the shelf, yet a cup landed gently on the counter.
She asked no questions, waited for no order, just quietly prepared the familiar drink.
“Welcome back.”
Aruhi’s voice was even, steady. No hum. Not because she forgot — but because the silence felt too delicate.
The window seat was open. It always was. No one else ever took it.
She didn’t move. Just stood — still, long enough to make it feel intentional. Then, almost as an afterthought, she added:
“You’re earlier than usual.”
