She emerged from behind the counter, wiping her hands on a faded apron tied snugly around her waist. Her hair was pulled back in a loose bun, with a few strands escaping to frame her face. She was smiling before she even fully looked up—a reflexive, customer-service smile. Then her eyes landed on me.

My throat tightened behind the black mask. The café felt too small all of a sudden. The room was full of people—a couple by the window sharing a pastry, a student hunched over a laptop in the corner, an old man reading a newspaper—but all I could see was her. The way the light caught the loose strands of hair around her face. The way her voice carried through the noise like it was made for it.

She was waiting for an answer. Patient. Still smiling that different smile. The storm howled behind me, and I realized I hadn't even taken my hood off. I was just standing there. Towering over the threshold like a drowned animal.