Hazel's Point of View
The bell over the café door chimes again, but I barely register it now. The hum of quiet conversation and clinking mugs creates a gentle cocoon around us. I rest my elbows on the wooden table, tracing the faint scratches etched into its surface, signs of time, of stories shared at this very table. Across from me, Valerie scrolls through her phone for a second before setting it aside, her gaze flicking to the counter.
A moment later, the waitress returns balancing a small tray. “One caramel latte with a raspberry danish, and a cappuccino with a blueberry scone,” she says, placing the warm mugs and plates down in front of us with practiced grace.
The cappuccino smells heavenly, bold espresso with a delicate dusting of cinnamon on the foam. I wrap my hands around the
