The smell of coffee reached me before I opened my eyes.
For a few blissful seconds, I remained exactly where I was, caught somewhere between sleep and consciousness. The scent was warm and rich, carrying memories of mornings that belonged to another life. Mornings when I had an apartment, a kitchen, and a future that seemed predictable. Mornings when coffee came from my own coffeemaker instead of a sixty-three-year-old man who apparently refused to mind his own business.
The realization pulled me fully awake.
I opened my eyes and found Timothy standing beside the bench.
"Morning, Miss Johnson."
I pushed myself upright and accepted the coffee he offered.
The concrete bench had left its usual collection of aches throughout my back and shoulders. Sleeping outside never got easier no mat
