Chapter 1

George Booth always stopped me from going to see the coffee shop. He said the beams had collapsed and seeing it would only make me feel worse.

For three years, every time I brought it up, he'd frown and hand me a mug of water.

We moved to the next town to pay off the loan. He took on tougher work, and I worked late washing dishes at a small restaurant.

Last week, while delivering goods for the restaurant owner, I passed by Oak Street and, almost without thinking, wandered into that alley.

What I saw wasn't the wreck I'd pictured in my head.

The roof tiles gleamed, a copper bell dangled from the wooden door, and two flower pots were trimmed perfectly at the entrance. The sign said "Maple Yard Café."

This was the shop George and I had agonized over for ages before finally picking it.

I stood at the doorway, the delivery slip in my hand practically soaked with sweat.

The door opened from the inside.

A young woman in a pale blue dress stood there. An apron was tied around her waist, making her look like the lady of the house.

I had seen her before.

George told me she was a distant cousin. He had even posted photos of them together on Instagram.

I looked at her, and she looked back at me.

"Who are you looking for?" she asked, one hand resting on the doorframe, her voice carrying a hint of annoyance at being disturbed.

I glanced up at the sign above the door.

It was No. 18 Willow Lane.

I wasn't mistaken.

This was the shop my father bought with the last of his savings before he passed away, the final thing he left me.

I asked, "Does this shop belong to you?"

The woman looked me up and down, her eyes stopping on my wrinkled hands, worn and rough from washing dishes.

"Why do you care?" she asked.

"I'm looking for the owner," I said.

She smiled and shouted to the inner hall, "George, someone's looking for the owner."

I heard the sound of a cup being set down on the table.

Then George's voice came from inside. "Who is it?"

I didn't leave.

The smile on the woman's face slowly faded. She stepped forward, blocking my view.

"We're not taking walk-in customers today. You should try somewhere else."

I asked, "George is inside?"

Her hand tightened around the edge of the door.

"You know him?"

Footsteps approached from inside.

Before the little brass bell above the door could ring, I turned around and walked away, leaving the alley behind.

*****

When I got back to our apartment, George was already in the kitchen, making pasta.

He heard the door open and poked his head out, smiling.

"You're back? You must be exhausted. The pasta's almost ready," he said.

I set my canvas bag on the chair, my fingers still stiff.

He came out with a bowl and handed me a fork.

"Did the restaurant owner make you move grains again? I'll talk to her tomorrow. You're not in the best shape, she shouldn't keep piling all the work on you," he said.

"George," I said, staring at the egg in my bowl. "I want to go back to Oak Street and see it."

His hand, holding the fork, paused for a moment, but only for a moment.

"Why are you bringing up that old café again?" he asked.

"It's been three years. I want to see how much it's fallen apart," I said.

"No matter how bad it looks, it's all the same," George said, sliding the egg into my bowl. "It takes money to fix it, and money to tear it down. Looking at it will just make you feel worse."

"I don't mind feeling upset."

He looked up at me, a hint of reproach in his eyes.

"Jennifer, right now what matters most is just keeping our lives on track. The money your dad left you has already been poured into that place, and honestly, it hurts me even more than it hurts you."

He spoke slowly, as if afraid I wouldn't understand.

"It's been abandoned, nobody cares about it anymore. The beams are falling apart, and the walls are cracked. If you don't believe me, once things calm down for me, I'll take you there myself," he said.

I slurped up some pasta, the soup was a bit too salty.

He sat down across from me and reached out to gently ruffle my hair.

"Don't let your mind run wild. You've been working yourself to the bone lately. Your eyes are all red from exhaustion," he said.

I lowered my head.

His touch was warm.

For three years, he'd been nothing but gentle to me.

In winter, he'd tuck a hot water bottle into my bed. In summer, afraid I'd get heatstroke, he'd ride his bike out at midnight just to buy me medicine.

But today, behind that door, I heard him say to her, "Maya, your coffee's getting cold," his voice barely above a whisper.

He spoke so quietly, like he was talking to someone he was completely comfortable with, someone he didn't need to keep any secrets from.

*****

The next day, I took half a day off and went back to Willow Lane.

This time, I didn't go into the coffee shop.

I went to the umbrella repair stall at the corner.

The stall owner was a skinny old man with sharp eyes. He caught me staring at Maple Yard Café and asked, "Looking for coffee?"

I shook my head.

"I wanted to ask, when did No. 18 open?" I said.

The old man kept his eyes fixed on the needle as he threaded it.

"It's been open for over two years now. Business is really good, lots of girls come here just to snap pics," he replied.