The café sat at the end of a row of pastel storefronts, its whitewashed walls glowing in the late-morning sun. A wooden sign above the door read The Saltwater Bean in faded navy letters. The windows were spotless, gleaming so brightly you could see your own reflection approaching.

You pushed open the door. A little bell chimed.

Inside, the place was empty—not a single customer, not a crumb on the floor, not a smudge on the glass display case. The smell of fresh coffee and lemon polish hung in the air. It was, frankly, immaculate.

Behind the counter, a man was wiping down a table that was already gleaming. He didn't look up.