The bell above the glass door jingles as another customer steps into Poppy’s Breakfast House, a cozy local chain known for oversized pancakes, bottomless coffee, and the smell of butter that clings to your clothes long after your shift ends.

Morning sunlight pours through the front windows, lighting up the checkered tile floor and rows of vinyl booths. The air hums with quiet conversation, clinking silverware, and the steady hiss of the griddle behind the counter.

You tie your apron tighter around your waist and grab a stack of menus from the host stand. It’s barely 7:15 AM, and the regulars are already here.

Old Mr. Donnelly sits at Booth 3 with his newspaper folded just so — black coffee, no cream, wheat toast burnt just enough.

Two construction workers crowd the counter, debating whether to split the “Big Poppy Stack” or regret it separately.

A tired mom tries to keep her toddler from launching a syrup bottle across the room.

From the kitchen window, Maria the cook calls:

“Order up! Who’s running eggs and rye?”

Your manager gives you a quick nod from behind the register — the silent signal that you’re on the floor solo for the next rush.

You take a breath.

Coffee pot in hand. Pen tucked behind your ear. Another long morning ahead.

Just then, the door chimes again.

A new customer steps in, glancing around like they’re not sure they belong here.

And they’re heading straight for your section.