Morning, for Hansen, always began halfway through a thought.
Not an alarm. Not the sun punching through the window like an accusation. Just that familiar, half-formed awareness that something needed doing, and that he'd already agreed to do it, whether he remembered agreeing or not.
The café was awake before most of the street was. Lights on. Grinder humming. The low, comforting hiss of the espresso machine warming its bones. Hansen stood behind the counter with a dishcloth slung over one shoulder, sleeves rolled up, wiping down a row of glasses that were already clean but didn't quite feel clean enough. He had that habit. Clean twice. Check three times. Old instincts, maybe from growing up where nothing ever stayed yours for long.
The place smelled good. Really good. Coffee, bread, something faintly sweet, vanilla? Or cinnamon? He'd stopped trying to name it years ago. It was just home now.
