Chapter one
Simone
Snow pressed against my window like a cold, curious child trying to peek in. I blinked awake, watching crystalline flakes swirl in the blue-gray morning light while the familiar ache bloomed beneath my ribs. Holiday season again. Another year of watching other people's joy while wearing mine in a pretty pink costume. I stretched beneath my comforter, fingers brushing the empty side of my bed. Outside, multicolored lights twinkled along eaves and lampposts, turning the snow into a glittering rainbow. Beautiful. Festive. Perfectfor everyone except the girl who'd learned to wrap loneliness around herself like a second blanket.
My alarm hadn't even gone off yet. I always woke before it could, trained by years of early café shifts and the persistent fear of letting people down. The red numbers glowed 5:17 AM forty-three precious minutes I could have stayed cocooned against the December chill. But lying in bed meant thinking, and thinking meant feeling. Better to move.
I swung my legs over the edge, toes curling against the cold floor. My apartment was tiny even by city standards, a glorified shoebox with minimal insulation and maximum charm, if charm meant creaking pipes and a draft that whistled through the windowsill. My gaze drifted across the space that was simultaneously the bedroom, living room, and dining area. A single mug sat beside the sink, washed, dried, ready for this morning's coffee. One plate, one fork, one knife. Efficient. Lonely. The only other living thing in my space was a potted fern I'd named Herbert. He drooped slightly, guilt-tripping me for forgetting yesterday's watering.
"Sorry, buddy," I murmured, padding over to give him a drink. "Some of us have to work for a living."
Herbert didn't respond. Typical.
The shower hissed and sputtered before grudgingly offering hot water. I stood beneath it longer than I should have, letting the heat sink into muscles tensed from another night of dreams I couldn't quite remember. Something about running. Something about being lost. The usual. Wrapped in a threadbare towel, I faced the most important decision of my morning: which pink dress would it be today? I owned an embarrassing number, soft pink, hot pink, dusty rose, magenta. Today called for something bright. Armor against the gray sky and my grayer thoughts. I chose the fuchsia sweater dress with the cowl neck. Pairedwith black tights and my lucky snowflake earrings, it screamed "Festive! Happy! Definitely not crumbling inside!"
My curls refused to behave, spiraling wildly in the bathroom's humidity. I tamed them into something resembling a style, tucking the most rebellious strands behind my ears. They'd escape within the hour, but the attempt mattered.
"You've got this," I told my reflection. "You're Simone freaking Parker."
My reflection didn't look convinced.
I glanced at the clock 6:08 AM. The café opened at seven, and I needed to be there by 6:30 to prep. No manager meant I was the unofficial everything: opener, mediator, human resources department, and shoulder to cry on when supernatural relationship drama inevitably spilled over the counter. Three months since Marcel had died. Three months of running The Hearth Café with no official title, no raise, and only the vague assurance from the absentee owner's lawyer that "someone would be in touch about the management position."
No one had been in touch. No one had called. Just me, showing up every day, making sure the magic didn't fade from the most enchanted coffee shop in the city. I smeared on pink lip gloss, the final touch in my transformation. Hungry customers didn't want to see tired Simone with her worry lines and fragile heart. They wanted perky Simone, who remembered that the werewolves needed extra whipped cream and the banshees preferred their tea at exactly 175 degrees. The weight of responsibility sat heavy on my shoulders as I laced up my snow boots. The café wasn't just a job, it was home to so many regulars, a safe haven where supernatural beings could sip lattes without hiding their horns or wings or occasional third eye. If I failed, they lost that sanctuary. If I failed, I lost the only place I truly belonged.
My phone chirped with a text from Silas, our pastry chef: "Running 15 min late. Tell the customers to keep their panties on."
I rolled my eyes. Typical Silas, dramatic entrance guaranteed, black eyeliner perfect despite the ungodly hour.
I shrugged on my puffy pink coat, wound a scarf around my neck, and grabbed my keys. Herbert got a final misting and a promise to be home at a reasonable hour, a lie we both recognized. At my door, I paused, rolling my shoulders back and lifting my chin. The gesture was physical alchemy, transforming doubt into determination, exhaustion into enthusiasm. The Simone who walked through that door would be unshakable, unflappable, and utterly reliable.
I stepped out into the snow, boots crunching through fresh powder that sparkled under streetlamps. The cold bit at my cheeks, painting them a pink no blush could achieve. Above, the sky lightened from black to deep blue, stars fading like distant memories. Somewhere between my apartment and the café, the weight in my chest would lift. It always did. Because despite everything, the loneliness, the uncertainty, the bone-deep exhaustion, I loved that damned café. And love, even for a place rather than a person, was enough to keep me walking through the snow, smile firmly in place, ready to face another day of giving everyone else exactly what they needed.
The café key always felt heavier in the morning dark. I slipped it into the lock, hearing the familiar click as tumblers recognized my touch. The Hearth Café sat silent and waiting, holding its breath like it did every morning before I brought it to life. My kingdom of mismatched chairs, enchanted garlands, and the best damn coffee beans this side of the veil between worlds.
I stepped inside, the door jingling shut behind me. Darkness hugged the corners, broken only by the faint glow of embers still smoldering in the hearth. The café had its own magic,literal magic, that kept the fire from ever fully extinguishing. My fingers found the light switches, flipping them in sequence. First the fairy lights that wrapped around exposed beams, then the vintage chandelier with its enchanted bulbs that mimicked candlelight, and finally the counter lamps that bathed the workspace in a golden glow. The café revealed itself like a shy lover, all cozy chaos and charm. Armchairs that never quite matched despite my best efforts to buy sets. Tables that shifted slightly overnight, as if they'd been dancing while I was gone. Garlands of pine and holly that twitched when no one was watching, their enchantments subtle but undeniable.
I hung my coat and scarf on the antique rack by the door, which creaked a sleepy good morning. Even the furniture had personality here.
"Morning to you too," I murmured, patting its wooden arm. "Let's get this day started, shall we?"
First priority: coffee. I measured beans into the grinder, inhaling their rich aroma as they transformed into fragrant grounds. The espresso machine, a beautiful copper beast that predated me by decades, hissed and gurgled as it warmed up, like an old dragon waking from slumber.
Water flowed through the grounds, dark elixir dripping into my waiting cup. The first sip was always a religious experience, bitter, complex, and immediately transformative. I felt the caffeine sing through my veins, chasing away the last wisps of early morning melancholy.
My routine unfolded with practiced precision. Counters wiped down with a cloth that never seemed to stain. Mugs arranged in colorful rows, each with its own quirk, the blue one that kept drinks warmer, the spotted one that made bitter drinks sweeter, the chipped one that somehow fixed itself a little more each day.
The chalkboard menu awaited its daily update. I picked up the magical chalk, which warmed between my fingers like it wasgreeting an old friend. As I wrote, the letters flowed with little flourishes I never intended, curlicues on the "C" in "Caramel," stars dotting the "i" in "Peppermint." When I turned away, I knew the doodles would shift and change, the chalk's magic adding playful touches throughout the day.
The pastry case gleamed empty, waiting for Silas's masterpieces. He'd arrive soon, fifteen minutes late, as promised, with trays of treats decorated with his signature macabre flair. Skull-shaped gingerbread, blackberry tarts with blood-red centers, chocolate eclairs dusted with edible silver that shimmered like moonlight on water. Our goth boy baker had a gift for making death look delicious.
I straightened cushions on loveseats, fluffed pillows, and adjusted the already-perfect wreath on the door. The motions were mechanical, comforting in their familiarity. Snow continued falling outside, muffling the early morning city sounds and making the café feel like a pocket universe, separate from the world beyond its frosted windows. Inside, the air smelled of coffee beans, cinnamon, butter, and the faintest hint of magic like electricity before a storm or ozone after a spell. The stone hearth in the corner crackled as its embers breathed back to life without any help from me. Marcel had enchanted it before he died, a permanent spell that ensured The Hearth Café would always live up to its name. I watched the flames dance, thinking of the old manager who'd taught me everything before his "mysterious accident" three months ago. No one talked about how he'd been found drained of blood with strange symbols carved into his chest. No one mentioned the rumors that he'd angered something ancient and powerful.
And absolutely no one discussed the fact that the café's owner, a shadowy figure I'd never met, hadn't bothered to show up for the funeral or appoint a new manager.
I shivered despite the growing warmth. The floorboards creaked underfoot as I moved to adjust a garland that had twisted overnight into the shape of a horn. The café had its quirks, some charming, some unsettling.
The coffee machine chimed, announcing the completion of its warm-up cycle. Ready for the morning rush of supernatural caffeine addicts. I'd memorized every regular's order: the lich who liked his coffee cold and bitter, the harpy whose five-shot espresso made even my teeth chatter, the shy dryad who only drank lavender tea with honey from her own bees. I paused in my preparations, suddenly overwhelmed by the quiet before the storm. This moment, this peaceful, perfect slice of solitude, was sometimes my favorite part of the day. Just me and the café, breathing together in the soft morning light.
