The world, for a few heartbeats, had been nothing but panic and noise. Now, as the last echoes of sirens faded down the orchard road, the café was left in uneasy quiet. The sunlight, so cheerful a few hours before, seemed to pool in anxious corners between overturned chairs and the spilled crumbs of an interrupted meal.
Mirae sat hunched on the low bench near the kitchen, hands fisted in the hem of her skirt. Her breath was shallow, her eyes too wide, unable to focus on any one thing for long. When Hye-jin found her—her manager's hair in disarray, her own eyes rimmed red—she barely spoke. Instead, Hye-jin knelt, wrapping a blanket over Mirae's shoulders with gentle, practiced hands, and set a steaming cup of tea between Mirae's cold fingers.
"Small sips," Hye-jin whispered, voice barely above the hush. "You're safe, sweetheart. It's over."
