The rich customers
Chloe wiped down the counter with habitual motions that had been practiced into muscle memory during long months of quiet work. The restaurant was small as usual, just a handful of stools at the counter, a couple of low tables, and a narrow aisle between the cooking area and the windows that faced the street. The red paper lanterns outside swung gently whenever the door opened, throwing soft, forgiving light across wooden surfaces. On nights like this, the place felt honest. The steam, the clack of chopsticks, the small conversations that rose and fell like tide.
Mio, a young colleague with an easy grin and hands that moved like a violinist’s, leaned across the pass to share a piece of gossip. “They looked like celebrities,” she whispered, eyes bright. “The car alone
