Days blurred gently into one another. The fog returned sometimes, not as a threat, but as a companion. The café stayed warm and constant, its clock ticking perfectly now — except for a faint, secret pause between twelve and one.
You carried the brass key in your pocket still, tracing the number 13 when you thought no one was looking. The barista never mentioned that night. The cat never returned — not visibly, at least.
But sometimes, when the world felt too loud, you would sit by the café window, watch your reflection smile back, and listen.
And faintly, between the regular chimes, there it was: a soft purr, patient and eternal, reminding you that the door would always know your name.