The café didn't look like a business spot. No glass walls, no shiny espresso machines displayed for show, no coworking tables with ring lights and laptops. It was tucked between a yoga studio and a flower shop, partially hidden by a tree whose branches almost covered its sign:
Quiet Hours Café.
Fitting.
The driver dropped him off and waited outside. Timothy pushed the door gently. No door chimes. Just the quiet hiss of the AC and the soft hum of an air purifier.
Inside—wood tables, soft gray walls, warm lighting, muted jazz music. No influencers posing with graham frappes. No loud conversations. Just three customers—laptop open, headphones on; two older women chatting softly; and a young man reading an actual paperback book.
A waitress approached, smiling professionally—not enthusiastically.
"Table for one, sir?"
"Yes."
"Window side? It's quieter."
He nodded.
