Sunlight spilled through the wide glass windows of Café Laevatain, turning the floating dust in the air into tiny sparks of gold. It was exactly noon. The busiest hour of the day.
The steady hiss of steam, the clatter of cups, and the deep aroma of freshly ground coffee filled every corner of the café. Baristas moved behind the counter with practiced precision, hands quick, voices sharp, orders flowing without pause. Laevatain Cafe was alive.
Then the front door swung open.
Clara rushed in, breath uneven, hair slightly out of place. She looked nothing like the calm, radiant barista customers adored. A few heads turned. Someone glanced at the clock on the wall.
11:00 AM.
Her shift had started an hour earlier.
Behind the espresso machine, Robert noticed immediately. The silver-haired owner of the café stood tall in his tailored European suit, his sharp eyes narrowing as they landed on her.
"Good morning, sir," she greeted.
