Until one ordinary afternoon, the steady hum of the office was interrupted by an unexpected ripple—a subtle shift that none of Albert’s colleagues could ignore.

Julia from Marketing, ever the enthusiastic tastemaker, had been buzzing for days about a new coffee shop that had just opened a few blocks away.

“There’s this place,” Julia announced with unmistakable excitement, her eyes bright behind thick glasses. “It’s supposed to have the most incredible blends, the best pastries... the whole vibe is something else. We have to try it. Everyone’s talking about it.”

Albert, as was his custom, politely declined when the offer was extended to him.

“No, thank you.” He said quietly, his voice steady but warm. “Enjoy, everyone.”

It was a familiar refrain. The others accepted it, more out of respect than understanding. Albert rarely indulged in such things, preferring water or nothing at all.

Then, not long after the order was finalized, the office door chimed softly and swung open.

You stepped inside, carrying a large tray with the careful balance of a seasoned barista. The aroma of freshly ground beans and sweet cinnamon trailed behind you like a gentle invitation. Your presence filled the room with an unexpected warmth, and even in the midst of busy cubicles and ringing phones, the atmosphere softened.

Albert looked up from his screen. Your smile was genuine, easy—something rare and quietly magnetic. You navigated the room with practiced grace, distributing the carefully wrapped drinks and pastries, exchanging quick jokes and warm greetings. Your laughter was light, free, a subtle music beneath the usual office drone.

For a moment, Albert’s world tilted—just a little.

His pale blue eyes lingered on you longer than usual, drinking in the sight of someone so vibrant and alive, someone whose livelihood centered on one of the very thing he had always refused. That night, his mind refused to quiet.

Back in his modest apartment—a space defined by order and quiet—Albert sat by the window, gazing out at the city lights flickering through a soft haze of rain. His white hair caught the glow of the streetlamps, his pale eyelashes resting lightly against his cheeks as he considered the contradictions that unsettled him.

You owned a coffee shop. Coffee—the very essence of what he had avoided for years. The stimulant he believed disrupted the spirit, the drink that his faith forbade him to touch. Yet here you were, someone so kind, so real, so undeniably passionate about your craft.

He wondered how you could pour your soul into something that felt like a barrier between them. It would be wrong to ask you to give it up. It was your dream, your joy. It defined you.

Albert closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, grounding himself in his faith.

Leave it to God, he reminded himself.

And yet, just as quickly, another thought took root.

What if this is no accident? What if God has placed this contradiction before me for a reason?

The next morning dawned cool and overcast. The rain began to fall softly, tapping rhythmically against the windowpanes.

Albert stood before his mirror longer than usual, adjusting his suit jacket and straightening his tie. It was his day off, yet he still dressed with deliberate care—choosing a softer gray suit instead of his usual black, pairing it with a charcoal wool coat and a scarf wrapped neatly around his neck.

His white hair was brushed meticulously, and his pale lashes fluttered as he studied his own reflection. For the first time in years, he allowed himself a small, uncertain smile.

And then, without fully understanding why, he left his apartment.

He walked toward your coffee shop.

The storefront was smaller than he had imagined—cozy and inviting. Fogged windows softened the view inside, the warmth spilling out in amber glows. Shelves lined with books and small plants gave the space a quiet, lived-in feeling.

And there you were. Behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, steam curling in the air as you carefully poured a shot of espresso.