"The Walk to Snowdrop Café"
The city had just begun to stretch itself awake when Allen stepped into the street. The morning sun had not yet grown bright enough to burn the chill from the air, and the soft mist that clung to the rooftops caught the first glimmers of light like dusted glass.
He slipped his hands into his coat pockets, adjusting his scarf. The cold bit faintly at his fingertips, but he didn't mind it — he had always preferred mornings like this: cool, quiet, a little unfinished, as if the world itself was still remembering how to breathe.
Traffic was light at this hour. Only the occasional car hummed down the wet asphalt, and the streetlamps still glowed faintly orange even as daylight crept over the horizon.
A bakery on the corner was already open. The faint scent of yeast and freshly baked bread drifted out into the street, mixing with the aroma of damp earth and the faint tang of roasted beans from somewhere further down.
Allen's footsteps were steady — measured and unhurried. Each step carried a soft rhythm against the pavement, a counterpoint to the distant chatter of birds hidden among the rooftops.
He passed familiar sights:
the newspaper vendor with his stall half-open,
an elderly woman watering her balcony plants,
a delivery truck unloading crates of milk outside a convenience store.
It was the same path he took every day, yet never boring. The little things — the way steam curled from a kettle in a café window, or how sunlight slowly climbed the brick walls of the opposite buildings — gave each morning its own quiet texture.
At one intersection, he paused at a red light. Across the street, a child clung to her father's hand, swinging her schoolbag as she hummed a tune. The sight made him smile faintly — it reminded him of Erika, when she was much smaller, when mornings were chaos and laughter instead of the calm routine they had now.
The light turned green. He crossed.
The walk to Snowdrop Café took about fifteen minutes. The café sat at the end of a narrow street lined with small shops — an antique bookstore, a florist, and a quiet stationery shop whose window always displayed neat rows of notebooks and pens.
At this hour, the street was painted in pale gold. The reflection of sunlight from the glass windows shimmered faintly on the wet stones of the sidewalk.
The café itself stood out not because it was grand, but because it was welcoming. A small wooden sign hung above the door, carved with the name in elegant cursive:
❄ Snowdrop Café ❄
The front windows were fogged faintly from the warmth inside. Potted plants lined the window ledge, and the scent of caramel and roasted beans already drifted out through the small gap in the door.
Allen reached for his keys, unlocking the front door with a soft metallic click. The bell above the entrance chimed gently — a familiar sound that carried through the empty room like a greeting.
He stepped in, inhaling the air — warm, rich, and comforting. It smelled of ground coffee, cinnamon, and faint traces of vanilla from yesterday's pastries.
He turned on the lights, one switch at a time. Soft amber glows illuminated the interior: wooden tables polished smooth, a row of bar stools, the chalkboard menu still faintly smudged from yesterday's writing.
The café felt like a little pocket of peace in a restless world.
Allen hung his coat on the rack near the door and set his satchel behind the counter. He moved with quiet familiarity — checking the espresso machine, refilling the bean grinder, turning on the milk steamer to warm. The hiss of heating metal filled the air, followed by a soft hum from the refrigerator behind the counter.
"Morning, Allen."
The voice came from the back door. A young woman stepped out — Mira, one of the morning staff, her auburn hair tied into a loose ponytail. She was still fastening her apron, a drowsy smile on her face.
"Morning," Allen replied. "You're early today."
"Couldn't sleep," she said with a small shrug, moving to check the pastry display. "So I figured I'd come help with prep."
"That's rare," Allen said lightly, glancing at her. "Usually, I have to wake the espresso machine before you."
She rolled her eyes, laughing softly. "One time, and you never let me forget it."
"It was three times," he corrected calmly.
Mira huffed, but her smile didn't fade. "You sound just like my grandmother."
"Then she must be a very patient woman."
She laughed again, shaking her head. "You and your calm replies. I'll start the oven."
Allen nodded, turning back to the counter. He adjusted the grinder, pouring in a fresh batch of dark roast beans. The scent intensified instantly — sharp yet sweet, earthy and deep.
As the first sound of grinding filled the room, sunlight filtered through the windows, scattering gold across the counter. The café felt alive again.
By the time the clock hit 7:40, the first customers began to arrive — mostly regulars. The bell above the door chimed softly with each entrance.
An elderly man in a wool coat took his usual seat near the window — Mr. Sato, a retired teacher who always ordered black coffee and read the newspaper for an hour before walking home again.
"Good morning, Mr. Sato," Allen greeted as he approached.
"Ah, young Rainsfeld," the old man said with a faint smile. "Still opening early, I see."
"Habit," Allen replied, setting down the menu though he already knew the order. "The usual?"
Mr. Sato nodded, unfolding his newspaper. "Black, strong, and no sugar. Like old age."
Allen smiled politely. "Coming right up."
Back at the counter, Mira was arranging the pastries — croissants, cheesecakes, and a few freshly baked cinnamon rolls. The aroma filled the air, mingling with the sound of pouring coffee.
A moment later, the door chimed again. Two students entered — both in uniform, their scarves half undone, still laughing about something. They looked like Erika's classmates.
"Welcome," Allen said. "Would you like to sit inside or take out?"
"Inside, please," one of them replied, scanning the menu. "Uh, two caramel lattes and... one of those cinnamon rolls, please."
"Got it."
He worked quickly but smoothly, pulling the shots of espresso, steaming the milk, and creating the familiar swirl of caramel art atop the foam. The girls watched quietly — one whispering to the other, "He's really good at that, huh?"
Allen set the cups down before them with a polite nod. "Enjoy your morning."
"Thank you!" they chimed in unison.
Their laughter blended softly with the hum of conversation from Mr. Sato's table and the low hiss of the espresso machine.
By 7:50, the café was fully awake. Mira moved between tables with practiced grace, balancing trays, refilling cups. The faint sound of jazz played through the small speaker in the corner — mellow piano and brushed drums that filled the spaces between voices.
Allen worked mostly behind the counter, though his attention moved everywhere — a quick glance to see if a cup needed refilling, if the pastry display was running low, if the door needed wiping.
He wasn't just working — he was maintaining rhythm. The kind of quiet rhythm that made people feel comfortable without knowing why.
When things slowed for a moment, Mira leaned on the counter beside him. "You know," she said softly, "you could relax a little."
He raised a brow. "I am relaxed."
She smirked. "You look like a detective guarding a crime scene."
Allen exhaled a quiet laugh. "I suppose old habits die hard."
"Still thinking about your old post?"
"Not really," he said. "Just... making sure everything stays in order."
She watched him for a second, then smiled. "Well, it works. Customers like you."
"I just make coffee," he said simply.
"You make it right," she corrected.
Her tone was casual, but her words carried warmth — the kind that made Allen pause for a heartbeat before he nodded and returned to wiping the counter.
Outside, the city had fully come to life. Sunlight poured through the window, spilling across the tables and catching the gentle swirl of steam rising from the cups.
Through the glass, Allen could see the street bustling with movement — office workers hurrying by, bicycles gliding down the lane, the florist across the street opening her door with a wave.
The café bell rang again, letting in another swirl of cool air and morning chatter.
Allen turned with his usual polite smile. "Welcome to Snowdrop Café."