“Is this a new recipe, mister?” the woman asked, her voice as soft as a drifting feather.

  She wore an elegant gown of muted grey, its fabric catching the faintest glimmers of light like morning mist.

  In her hand, she cradled a delicate white cup, rimmed with intricate patterns of pink-tinged roses.

  Her pinky finger lifted in a poised arch—an unspoken gesture of her station, refined and practiced over a lifetime.

  “My, you truly are my finest customer, madame,” the shopkeeper replied warmly.

  Or so he believed.

  He had never asked her status outright, but everything about her spoke of nobility.

  The green gemstones adorning her wrists and ears, the face as radiant as a sky filled with starlight, and hair that flirted between shades of fiery orange and pale gold.

  Her every word and motion were steeped in elegance.

  “I had the fortune of acquiring some exotic beans from Eldoria,” he explained, bowing his head slightly.

  “I thought it a fine occasion to test them. Forgive my arrogance for not informing you beforehand. I ought to have served you what you ordered.”

  A light, musical laugh escaped her lips. “Oh, please, mister, don’t trouble yourself. Life is far sweeter when it allows for a few unexpected delights.”

  She smiled—tender, warm. “Would you also tell me… does the color differ?”

  The man, late-thirties with unruly dark brown hair and sleeves rolled up from the day’s work, mirrored her smile instinctively.

  Whether from courtesy or simple habit, he wasn’t sure.

  Not that it mattered.

  The woman before him couldn’t see his gestures, nor anything else in the little café.

  A veil of sheer white, embroidered with fine gold thread, draped over her eyes—an elegant cover for her blindness.

  “It’s a bit greener,” he said, chuckling nervously before realizing his mistake. “Greener… well, like I had dropped mold into it.”

  Horrified by his own words, he rushed to correct himself, “Ah—no, no, not like that. It’s more like… the soft green of a rose’s stem...?”

  Another laugh, lighter this time, rewarded his clumsy attempt.

  Truth be told, he knew very little about her. Only that she had been coming here for months now—his most loyal, and certainly his most cherished, customer.

  Most certainly noble, too.

  He never spoke of it, but he had noticed the subtle presence of servants outside—stationed just beyond the windows, careful to stay out of sight.

  Even during her first visit, these servants had been there, shadows in the periphery, unseen by most but obvious to an observant eye.

  Why she chose to leave them outside was a mystery.

  Perhaps she wished to be seen not as a lady of high rank, but simply as a customer seeking a quiet corner of the world.

  Or perhaps she simply disliked the attention that inevitably followed her, her beauty and bearing impossible to ignore.

  Whatever her reasons, the man found no cause to object.

  His shop operated under a simple principle: if one entered as a customer, they were welcomed—no titles, no questions.

  “It was yet another splendid test today…” she murmured, trailing off.

  He caught the flicker of determination that crossed her features—a look he had seen many times over the past six months.

  “If only this could be served somewhere grander… perhaps… at the forefront of Mazacon Castle itself.”

  The man chuckled, a low, heartfelt sound. “Madame, you honor me. But I’ve told you before—this humble shop is all I desire. Not even if the Monarch himself offered me a place within the castle walls would I trade it away.”

  Her cheeks puffed out in mock indignation before softening into a playful grin.

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  “If only the barista weren’t such an old knucklehead…” she teased, the words chosen carefully—she knew well enough how the mention of age could poke at his pride.

  “Old…? Old?” the man echoed, feigning horror without ever raising his voice. “Madame, old? Why, there are parts of Continent where I’m still considered young blood!”

  He leaned forward slightly, mischief glinting in his eyes. “Perhaps if you could see for yourself, you’d know better than to utter such slander.”

  A brief silence followed—only to be shattered by laughter from both of them, light and unrestrained.

  “Touche,” she said with a playful bow of her head, placing the delicate cup onto the modest wooden table.

  Then she rose from her chair with effortless grace, her figure framed by the warm, brown-toned walls of the little café, a space not much larger than a merchant’s booth.

  From her small purse, she withdrew several silver coins and set them gently on the table—four in total.

  Only one was necessary.

  “As always, madame, your generosity far exceeds this humble shop’s worth,” the man murmured softly, stepping closer as though drawn by some unseen force.

  She offered no reply—only a gentle, knowing smile.

  With a graceful incline of her head and an effortless pivot, she turned, and together they traversed the brief distance to the café’s modest entrance.

  Their footsteps mingled quietly, echoing softly upon the wooden floorboards.

  A hush fell between them, lingering like a held breath—an unspoken anticipation settling delicately into the silence.

  “Is something troubling you, mister?” she asked softly, sensing the subtle shift in his demeanor.

  The man hesitated, gathering courage with a quiet clearing of his throat. “If the new blend pleased you,” he began gently, almost hesitantly, “I prepared a small portion you could take home.”

  A soft gasp of astonishment escaped her, her slender fingers instinctively rising to shield her lips in a gesture of genteel surprise. “Goodness! Could this truly be the same gentleman known to fiercely guard his precious coffee beans as if they were the kingdom’s jewels?”

  The man scoffed quietly, his lips tugging upward in reluctant amusement. “Very amusing, madame. Consider it merely a token of my gratitude—for my most loyal patron.”

  His voice softened further, tinged with uncertainty. “You see, I’ll soon be departing on a brief… vacation.”

  Her elegant brows knitted together at once, a ripple of genuine concern crossing her serene features—a reaction she herself could never behold, yet one he knew intimately.

  “A vacation?” she echoed quietly, tipping her head curiously.

  “Now I truly fear some impostor has replaced my favorite barista. Is everything quite alright?”

  “Indeed, madame,” he reassured gently, touched by her genuine worry.

  “Your kindness humbles me. It’s merely a family matter, something requiring my personal attention for a while.”

  “Oh,” she murmured softly, unable to fully conceal the subtle disappointment weaving through her voice—how could she? She had never learned the art of hiding feelings she could not herself perceive.

  “I sincerely hope,” she whispered warmly, “that whatever draws you away is resolved swiftly, and you return safely to this cherished little haven.”

  He gave no immediate reply, allowing her gentle sentiment to settle deeply into his heart.

  “Well then, I suppose I’ll graciously accept your gift,” she finally said, smiling faintly.

  He mirrored her smile, though unseen, and moved back behind the counter toward an ornate wooden shelf lacquered black and polished smooth.

  Opening one of the small compartments, he carefully retrieved a lush green package, its surface embossed elegantly with a stylized coffee bean and the flowing script of the words Far Grande.

  Returning to her, he extended the package respectfully. “Please, madame,” he urged softly, “it would truly please me.”

  Her right hand reached out instinctively, fingertips grazing gently before cradling it delicately in both hands.

  “Thank you,” she whispered earnestly, her voice barely audible yet filled with quiet sincerity.

  This time, it was the man who bowed deeply, reaching forward to open the door.

  A gentle chime of bells announced their parting, the crisp morning breeze brushing past, carrying the subtle fragrances of distant bakeries and blooming lilacs from the city beyond.

  “The pleasure was all mine, madame,” he assured her quietly.

  “As it was mine,” she answered warmly, lingering a moment longer than usual at the threshold.

  Somehow, it felt like a farewell—one unspoken yet unmistakably final.

  Standing there, he watched as she paused gracefully, withdrawing a slender object from her small embroidered purse—a collapsible walking stick fashioned elegantly from pale polished wood and silver fittings, no larger than a lady’s folding fan.

  With a quiet click, it extended fully, its polished tip touching the stone-paved alley with gentle precision.

  He watched her move away, each step sure and light, the rhythmic tap of her cane blending harmoniously with the awakening city around her.

  And what a city it was—a marvelously tangled tapestry of bygone elegance and dazzling modernity.

  To her left, horses and carriages rattled softly over cobblestone streets, their riders dressed impeccably in high-collared coats, boots polished to a gleaming shine, reins held confidently within gloved hands.

  Yet, humming gently overhead, a sleek carriage of brass and crystal drifted past without wheels, hovering effortlessly several feet above the ground—its etched glass windows glittering beneath the rising sun.

  To her right, vivid neon signs cast splashes of color over historic brick facades, flickering vibrantly across wrought-iron balconies and narrow bay windows.

  Projections advertised holographic operas and incredible mechanical innovations, promising miraculous wonders capable of bridging continents at the flick of a finger.

  Yet, amid these remarkable contrasts, the city clung stubbornly to its graceful traditions.

  Men respectfully tipped their top hats, ladies in flowing gowns whispered conspiratorially behind intricately embroidered fans, and streetlamps, their crystal cores pulsing gently, retained stately cast-iron designs reminiscent of another age.

  This was a world suspended in gentle contradiction—caught between lace and lightning, horses and floating vehicles, whispers of tradition and shouts of innovation.

  He saw no servants nearby.

  Yet their presence hung unmistakably in the air, concealed in shadows and subtle gestures, felt rather than seen.

  He had never asked her identity, this enigmatic woman attended quietly by unseen protectors.

  Perhaps he regretted that now.

  Yet what difference would it make, now that the wheels of fate were already turning?

  With a heavy sigh, he stepped back inside, gently closing the door behind him.

  The bell chimed softly once more, its delicate sound echoing gently before fading into silence, leaving the little café to its peaceful solitude beneath the sun’s golden embrace.