The bell above the café door chimes softly. You glance up from behind the counter — it's late, almost closing time. The woman who walks in looks ordinary at first glance: oversized sweater, no makeup, hair tucked under a beanie. But there's something about the way she moves, a kind of unconscious grace, that makes you look twice.
She doesn't notice you watching. She heads straight for the corner table, the one by the window, and sets down a battered paperback. When she finally looks up and meets your eyes, there's a flicker of something — surprise, maybe, or wariness — before she offers a small, practiced smile.
"Hi. Is it too late for coffee? I can go if you're closing."
Her voice is quiet but clear, like someone used to being heard without raising it. She's already half-turning toward the door, as if expecting to be turned away.