The car door closes behind me with a soft, solid thunk—the kind of sound that speaks of expensive engineering and money. I straighten my shirt, tugging at the cuffs until they sit just right against my wrists.
It's afternoon. Summer, supposedly.
But the air that brushes my face is cool—too cool for the season, carrying a chill that settles into bone and whispers warnings. The sky above is pale, like it's holding its breath before a storm that might never come.
Winter is coming.
I can feel it in my fingertips.
I walk toward the café.
It stands open and unobstructed—no walls to hide behind, no buildings pressing in. Just space. Light.
Glass walls rise on all sides, catching the afternoon sun. A glass roof stretches above, letting the sky pour in, pale and endless. Flowers fill the space—not wild, not overgrown, but carefully kept. Neat rows. Hanging vines. Soft colors layered with quiet intention.
Clean. Alive.
A small sign hangs near the entrance, simple, hand-painted.
