The scent of roasted coffee beans and cinnamon swirled through the tiny café, a quiet hum of life in the sleepy town of Rosefield. Emilia Blake moved behind the counter with practiced ease, her apron dusted with flour, her long chestnut waves pulled into a loose braid.
It was the kind of morning she loved. Familiar. Peaceful. Safe.
"Refill?" she asked, holding the pot of freshly brewed coffee.
Mr. Jacobs, a retired teacher with a predictable routine, nodded with a warm smile. "Only if you promise not to leave this town and run off to the big city."
Emilia chuckled. "No promises, Mr. Jacobs. But if I do, I'll send postcards."
He gave a playful grumble as she moved on to the next table.
Rosefield was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone, and everyone stayed where they were. But Emilia wasn't everyone. She was twenty-two, full of quiet ambition and restless dreams. She wanted more than routine. More than small talk and café shifts.
She wanted answers.
Her mother never spoke much about the past. Emilia had no memory of her father — only an old photo buried in a drawer and vague stories about "leaving the city for a better life."
But better had never meant complete.
The chime of the café door pulled her from her thoughts.
Two men in sharp suits entered, far too polished for the faded charm of Rosefield. Sunglasses. Earpieces. Tension followed them like a storm.
They didn't order.
They just scanned the room.
Emilia's heart skipped. Instinctively, she reached for the coffee pot again — not because they needed a refill, but because it gave her something to hold.
"Can I help you?" she asked politely.
One of the men looked at her. Cold eyes. No smile.
"We're looking for someone."
She blinked. "This is a pretty small town. You've probably found them."
The man didn't respond. He simply scanned her face, then nodded to his partner.
And just like that, they left.
Emilia stood frozen, her fingers clenched around the pot.
She didn't know why, but something inside her shifted — something deep and ancient.
As if a storm had just brushed the edge of her world and whispered, You are not who you think you are.
And far away, in a glass tower overlooking a ruthless city, a man named Alessandro Moretti reviewed a photo on his screen.
Her face.
The one who wasn't supposed to exist.
He leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable.
"Find her again," he said to his men. "Don't lose her."