The bell above the door jingles, signaling another customer's arrival at The Novel Grind. I glance up from where I'm restocking the pastry case and feel a smile tugging at my lips. It's become such a familiar routine these past four months—the steady flow of customers, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingling with the scent of old books, the comfortable chatter filling the cozy space.
I nod in acknowledgment, my hands continuing their task of arranging the muffins and scones just so. This place has become more than just a job to me; it's a sanctuary, a haven where I can breathe easy and simply exist without the weight of expectations bearing down on me.
As I work, my mind wanders to the evening ahead. It's been two weeks since Franklin and his wife, Emily, last had me over for dinner. I'm looking forward to the home-cooked meal and easy conversation, a stark contrast to the strained silences and disapproving glances that used to fill my family dinners back home.
