Three years is enough to change the look of a whole street.
The empty storefront next to my usual bookshop had finally been fitted out. The sign read: Harbor Light Café.
I pushed the door open on a Thursday afternoon.
The chime rang softly. The air was warm with the smell of roasting beans, threaded through with a faint piano melody.
Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows and cut bright rectangles across the pale grey floor.
"Welcome."
Someone looked up from behind the counter.
A man, somewhere around thirty, in a plain white T-shirt and a dark apron.
He wasn't the kind of handsome that made you stop. He was more like a stone worn smooth by a stream — quiet, unhurried, easy to be near.
"An Americano, please."
He nodded and turned to work. Efficient, no wasted moveme
