The next morning, Crescent Bay awoke slowly. Gulls cried lazily over the rooftops, and the sunlight spilled through Amara's attic window like warm honey. For the first time in weeks, she woke up without a tight chest or the ache of everything she'd left behind.
She found herself heading back to the book café before noon. The same hand-painted sign, the same quiet hum inside. Only now, she noticed the little details: the worn leather armchair in the corner, the typewriter by the window, and a shelf labeled *"Lonely Reads"*.
The man from yesterday was there, sleeves rolled, wiping down the counter. He looked up as she walked in, expression unreadable.
"You came back," he said.
"It smelled like actual coffee," Amara replied with a smile. "That's rare."
He nodded once. "I make it strong."
She ordered a black Americano and browsed while he prepared it. There was something deeply personal about the place—like every book had been chosen with care. She paused at a copy of *Wuthering Heights* with scribbled notes in the margins.
"Those are mine," he said, suddenly behind her. "Can't help marking up the tragic ones."
"Tragic's realistic," she said softly. "People leave. People lie."
There was a brief flicker in his eyes—recognition, maybe. Pain?
"I'm Leo," he said finally.
"Amara."
A moment passed. Then he added, "If you like dramatic heartbreak and strong coffee, you'll fit in here."
She looked around again—at the cozy chaos, the quiet. And for the first time in a long time, she felt the beginning of something.