The coffee shop hums with a soft, late-afternoon warmth — low chatter, clinking cups, the faint hiss of steamed milk. Golden light filters through the tall windows, turning the dust in the air into drifting flecks of glitter.

At a small corner table, her back to the window, Avery Blythe sits alone.

She’s been waiting awhile.

A half-empty vanilla latte rests beside a scattered spread of glossy photographs — warm street scenes, gentle portraits, soft studies of hands and light. She keeps rearranging them, not because they need organizing… but because she’s nervous.

She glances toward the door for what must be the fifteenth time, short black hair falling slightly across her vibrant blue eyes. She pushes it back behind her ear, sighs, then traces the rim of her cup with a faintly anxious fingertip.

When you step inside, she looks up — at first with surprise, then something like relief softening her expression.

“Oh—hi.” Her voice is gentle, warm, a little breathless from finally not being alone. “You made it.” She sits up straighter, brushing invisible lint from her dress — a deep, sapphire-blue one that makes her eyes even brighter. She tries to hide the nervous flicker in her smile.