Or perhaps it was the scent itself, dense and bitter, touched with a quiet sweetness, that carried the unspoken promise that the day could still be redeemed, no matter how cold its beginning or uncertain its path.
Washington, D.C., in January had a way of stripping the world bare. The sky hung low and heavy, a colorless expansepressing upon the frozen city. Snow from the last storm lingered in exhausted mounds along the curbs, and thin sheets of ice glimmered faintly on the pavement, silent traps waiting for the careless. The air carried a blade’s edge, sharp enough to pierce through my wool coat, and the wind pressed against me with a persistence that felt almost human in its cruelty.
I sank deeper into my scarf and hurried forward, my boots grinding over the salted concrete, each step marking a small defiance against the cold.
Despite the bitter weather, the city refused to sleep. Car horns flared through the air, scattering sound across the wide streets, buses sighed at corners, people moved past one another with shoulders drawn tight and faces half hidden beneath scarves. Even in discomfort, there was rhythm, a muted pulse that kept everything moving forward.
By the time I reached the café, a narrow shop nestled between a bookstore and an art gallery, the tips of my fingers had grown stiff and colorless, and the skin of my nose burned from the wind. The brass bell above the door gave a faint ring as I stepped inside, and for an instant the world outside ceased to exist.
Warmth gathered around me first, followed by the fragrance, freshly ground coffee, the sweetness of vanilla syrup, a trace of cinnamon, the faint musk of polished wood. It enclosed me completely, a quiet embrace that drew a sigh from somewhere deep in my chest before I could restrain it.
I paused at the threshold, letting the moment settle through me, allowing the simple comfort of it to fill the space that had grown hollow with exhaustion. For a moment, the world steadied, and safety became something I could almost believe in.
The café was a sanctuary of ordinary things, one of the few remaining constants in a life that seemed to tilt faster each week I crept closer to graduation. Third year of university, second semester, and the weight of every unmade choice pressed withslow insistence against my ribs, an ache I had learned to live beside. Yet within these walls, beneath the hum of conversation and the scent of roasted beans, that pressure eased. For a brief while, the noise of expectation fell away, and I could simply exist.
I unwrapped my scarf and joined the short line at the counter, flexing my stiff fingers as I waited. The hum of conversation drifted around me, low and soothing, a quiet current that filled the small space with warmth. Two students sat near the window, their heads bent over glowing laptop screens, while an older man in the corner scrolled through the news on his tablet, his coffee untouched and cooling beside him.
The barista, a familiar face with a small silver ring glinting in her nose and eyes that carried the kind of drowsy patience only early mornings could produce, caught my gaze and offered a brief smile of recognition.
My phone buzzed in the pocket of my coat. I tugged it free, my half-frozen fingers clumsy against the screen.
Aster.
Despite myself, a smile tugged at my lips as I answered.
“You’re up early,” I said, balancing the phone between my shoulder and cheek as the line inched forward.
“Please,” Aster’s voice crackled through the speaker, every word dripping with tired amusement. “I’ve been up since six, trying to finish that godforsaken portfolio. Remind me again why we chose English Lit?”
“Because we enjoy suffering,” I said, stepping ahead as the barista handed a cappuccino to the person before me.
“And caffeine dependency,” she added. “I bet you’re at that café again, the one that smells as though someone bottled Christmas and spilled it across the counter.”
“You know me too well.”
“Obviously. What else would you be doing at eight in the morning on the first day of the new term?”
“Mentally preparing myself to survive until May,” I said, shifting the strap of my bag higher on my shoulder, “and bribing myself with coffee.”
Her soft laugh carried through the phone, and it spread through me in a way the heater above my head never could. The line moved again, and suddenly I was standing before the counter. I pressed the phone slightly away from my ear, covering the speaker with my palm.
“Hi, the usual please.”
“A medium caramel latte?” the barista confirmed, her fingers tapping lightly across the screen. “It’ll be ready in a moment. Anything else?”
I shook my head and pulled out my card. I paid quickly and stepped aside to the pickup counter where the air was thick with the scent of espresso and steamed milk.
“Just don’t spill it on yourself this time,” Aster teased, her voice echoing faintly in my ear. “I still mourn that latte you sacrificed last semester.”
A minute later, the barista called my name. I stepped forward, the warmth of the paper cup seeping through my gloves and into my stiff fingers. “Thank you,” I said before retreating to a quiet corner near the door.
“I’ll have you know,” I said into the phone, my tone mock-serious, “I’ve evolved. No more tragic coffee casualties on my watch.” Aster laughed again, and the sound drew a small, genuine laugh from me in return. For a brief instant, everything felt ordinary, almost easy, until it happened.
Still caught in the comfort of our conversation, coffee in one hand and phone in the other, I turned toward the exit and collided hard into someone. The impact stole the breath from my chest, and the cup jolted from my grasp. Hot liquid spilledforward, scattering across a dark coat before the cup hit the floor and burst open, sending a thin spray of coffee across scuffed wood and polished leather.
There was a moment of stillness before the panic arrived, a split second suspended between awareness and reaction, where my mind screamed for control yet my body refused to obey. The cup struck the floor with a dull, final sound, scattering coffee and foam across the scuffed wood and the dark leather that bore the evidence of my carelessness.
I stumbled back, breath catching in my throat. “Shit—I’m so sorry—!” The words broke unevenly against the noise of my heartbeat.
