Morning came with a clear sky and the kind of bright light that makes everything look newly washed. The café hummed softly—grinder whirr, milk steaming, a bell over the door that chimed like a gentle metronome.
Emma sat at the corner table with a notebook open, the page split down the middle.
Left column: frames, shipping forms, contact at Marshall Gallery, varnish, hanging wire, insurance, train ticket.
Right column: call schedule, spare key for Hannah, letters (just in case), the blue scarf Hannah said smelled like cinnamon.
Hannah slid a mug beside the notebook and read the columns without a word. "I vote we start with coffee and end with the scarf," she said, trying for lightness and almost getting there.
Emma smiled. "Deal."
They moved through the morning like a small team that had practiced this a hundred times: Hannah prepped croissants and fielded regulars; Emma answered emails from the gallery, double-checked measurements, penciled in dates. The showcase opened in four weeks. The gallery wanted her there in two—time enough to hang the work, attend press previews, live in the buzz she'd told herself she wanted.
When the lull came—after the rush, before lunchtime—they stood together at the display case, hands resting on the glass the way people do when they're trying not to reach for each other.
"I talked to the framer," Emma said. "He can finish the last three by Friday."
Hannah nodded. "I'll help pack this weekend. Bubble wrap, corner guards. The works."
"You don't have to do everything," Emma murmured.
Hannah looked at her, steady. "I don't. I get to."
They made a plan—simple, workable, theirs. Morning calls at seven, when the city light is soft and Hannah's opening the café; evening check-ins after close, even if it's just a minute to say I'm here. Sunday letters, real paper, ink that smudges if you cry on it. It felt old-fashioned and stubbornly romantic, which was maybe the point.
By midafternoon, the lists had multiplied: a packing list for art, another for clothes, one simply titled "For When It's Hard." Emma tapped her pencil against that last header and glanced up.
"What goes on that one?" she asked.
Hannah thought for a moment. "Walk to the fountain. Hold the mug with both hands. Read the letter on the top of the stack first. Call me, even if you don't know what to say." She hesitated, then added, "Remember the smell of cinnamon."
Emma wrote each line down, slow, as if the act could anchor them both.
When the café emptied again, Hannah reached into her apron and pulled out a small brass key on a plain ring. "Spare for my place," she said, cheeks coloring. "Take it with you. It's… dumb, but it makes me feel like you're still walking in at any second."
Emma closed her fingers around it. "Not dumb," she said, voice going soft at the edges. "It feels like a promise."
They did a few small "goodbyes" that weren't really goodbyes. Emma took down the sketch that had hung near the register—one of Hannah laughing over a flour-dusted counter—and wrapped it in tissue for the city wall. In its place, Hannah pinned a note on kraft paper with a tiny clothespin: Reserved for when she's back. A couple of regulars noticed and smiled without asking questions. Maple Hollow was good at giving people privacy when it mattered.
By closing, the lists were neat, the plans clear, the future still terrifying but mapped. Hannah locked the door and leaned her shoulder against it, as if to seal in the day's courage.
"Two weeks," Emma said, half to herself.
"Two weeks to make a hundred small memories," Hannah answered. "Starting with dinner. I'm making the mushroom soup you like, and you're pretending not to hover while I do."
Emma laughed, relief loosening something tight in her chest. She tucked the brass key into her pocket, then reached for Hannah's hand as they stepped into the blueing evening.
They walked home slowly, not because they were stalling, but because it felt right to take the long way. The lists could wait a few more minutes. The little goodbyes, they were learning, were just another way of saying we're still here.