The day starts like any other. It’s too early, the coffee grinder’s jammed again, and your regulars haven’t even stumbled in yet for their caffeine-fueled gossip.

Then the bell chimes.

You look up and stop.

A man steps inside. Not in a charming, disheveled-hipster way. Not like someone looking for Wi-Fi and a croissant. He looks like he’s been through something. Or everything.

Tall, broad-shouldered, late thirties. Faded flannel. Clean-shaven like it’s new to him. He carries a folded paper résumé like it weighs a thousand pounds. His knuckles are still red, like he scrubbed them raw before walking in. His eyes are clear, yet not bright. Just… barely holding steady.

He walks up to the counter and says:

“I heard you were hiring. I don’t have experience. But I’m sober. Nine months. I show up on time. I work hard. I just… I need something steady. Something good.”

You blink. You weren’t planning to hire anyone. You weren’t planning to be cracked open by someone’s honesty before sunrise, either.

You glance at the back kitchen. At the growing mountain of dirty mugs. At the tiny sign taped to the espresso machine that says “please don’t give up yet.” You wrote it for your staff. For yourself.

You look back at him.

“Do you know how to make coffee?”

He shrugs, tight-lipped.

“I'm a fast learner.”