I’m here.
Back in Willow Creek. Back in the little apartment above the café.
Back where everything started and stopped.
A floorboard creaks near the window. For a second my heart tries to sprint, but it’s only the wind. The curtains sway. The air smells like rain that hasn’t quite decided whether to fall again.
I sit up, stretching until my spine pops, and squint at the clock. 6:12 a.m. I used to be up before sunrise when Aunt May was alive. She believed in catching the first batch of light and the first batch of muffins before the rest of the world realized it was hungry. My body remembers even if my mind pretends it doesn’t.
When my feet touch the wood floor, it’s cool enough to shock me awake. Our cat, Cherry’s collar jingles faintly in my memory, though she’s miles away with Nathan now. She was his before she was ours, a fact I couldn’t change.You’re sentimental before caffeine,I scold myself. It doesn’t help.
I shuffle to the kitchenette and fill the kettle. The plumbing groans in recognition, like it missed being useful. I pull a chipped mug from the cabinet—cream with a faded peach rim—and grab the tin labeled “Tea (Emergency Only).” Apparently, today counts as an emergency.
The kettle whistles. Steam curls into my hair, and for a moment I close my eyes, letting it soften the tight edges of my chest.
Downstairs, the café waits—empty tables, ghost of lemon oil, the faint hum of the refrigerator keeping time with my pulse.
The to-do list starts forming before I can stop it:
Call the supplier.
Order flour, butter, coffee beans, milk.
Decide if I’m brave enough to keep Aunt May’s menu or start over.
Pretend I know what I’m doing.
My pen hovers over the pad. The nib scratches across the paper, forming neat little lies likeScones—Blueberry? Cranberry? Courage-flavored?
I snort. If Tessa saw this, she’d write,add whipped cream to everythingand draw a smiley face.
A knock rattles the back door before I can think too hard. One, two—steady, familiar. I know that knock. I don’t even have to look.
I pad down the stairs, mug in hand, and unlatch the door. Luke stands there, taller than the doorframe should allow, morning chill caught in his hair. He’s wearing the same flannel as last night, sleeves rolled up, a paper bag balanced on his arm.
“Morning,” he says, voice still wrapped in sleep.
“It’s barely morning,” I mutter, stepping aside so he can come in. “You fix things on an empty stomach now?”
“Only if there’s coffee after.”
He sets the bag on the counter. The smell hits me first—fresh biscuits, butter, and honey. My throat tightens. “You didn’t have to?—”
