"I know."
"You've been here two weeks and you've already increased my morning revenue by thirty percent. Plus the networking contacts. Plus the Heritage Festival programming that'sbringing in grant money. Plus actual community engagement." Her jaw tightens. "If Blair has a problem with that, she can come say it to my face."
The fierce protectiveness in her voice does something complicated to my chest.
"Darius says to keep doing what I'm doing. Build connections. Be undeniably useful."
"You are useful." She says it like a fact. Simple. Unquestionable. "And if some politician wants to ignore that because it doesn't fit her narrative, that's her problem. Not yours."
I crush another pod. "I don't want to make things harder for you."
"You're not." She moves closer. Takes the mortar and pestle from my hands. Sets it aside. "Stone. Look at me."
I do.
Her eyes are serious. Steady.
"This shop works because you're here. The programming works. The community response works. Whatever Blair's planning, we'll deal with it. But don't for one second think you're the problem."
"Okay," I say, because what else can I say when she's looking at me like that.
She nods. Satisfied. Then returns to the espresso machine like the conversation is settled.
I go back to crushing cardamom.
The morning rush continues. Each customer another small proof that this matters. That I matter here.
When the crowd finally thins around ten, Lacy makes us both coffee. The Winter Market blend. We drink it standing at the counter, watching the street outside settle into its mid-morning rhythm.
"Thank you," I say.
"For what?"
"Believing this is worth something."
She looks at me over the rim of her cup. "It is worth something. You are."
And the way she says it, I almost believe her.
I spendthe afternoon prepping for the Heritage Festival demonstration.
The community center gave us a two-hour slot. I need to show smoking techniques, traditional spice blending, and some kind of interactive element that gets people engaged.
Darius's words keep circulating.Make yourself matter. Build connections that are harder to break.
I lift my notebook. The one with the terrible poetry and half-formed business plans. Start sketching demonstration ideas.
But my mind keeps drifting.
To Blair's questions. To the idea that I'm somehow taking instead of giving. To the fundamental assumption that I don't belong here.
I flip to a blank page.
Start writing before I can stop myself.
Home is a word I carry / like stones in my pockets / heavy with wanting
The old settlement holds my language / my childhood / the smoke-smell of gathering fires / but not my future
