Amelia’s POV
The little café buzzed with its usual morning energy, the hum of quiet conversations blending with the soft clinking of cups and the hiss of the espresso machine. I stood behind the counter, absently arranging the pastries, when Mrs. Harrington, one of my regulars, walked up with her cane.
“Morning, Amelia,” she greeted, her wrinkled face lighting up with a warm smile.
“Good morning, Mrs. Harrington,” I said, returning her smile. “The usual?”
“Of course, dear. You make the best Earl Grey in Willowridge.”
As I busied myself preparing her tea, she leaned on the counter and squinted at me. “You look troubled this morning. Something on your mind?”
I hesitated, but before I could respond, the door chimed, signaling the arrival of new customers. Turning toward the entrance, my
