As I sat in the cozy cafe, surrounded by the warm aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the sweet scent of pastries, the classic Winter Wonderland tune drifted from the jukebox.
The chatter of families and friends, all snuggled up with steaming mugs and plates of treats, created a lively hum that was almost palpable. The three waitresses, dressed in their festive red and white pin-up girl dresses, complete with antlers perched on their heads, flitted around the room with a cheerful energy that was infectious.
My fingers, stiff from two hours of crunching numbers on my laptop, reached out to flag one down.
"Would it be possible to get a warm-up on my coffee? This one's gone a bit cold," I mumbled, shoving a stray strand of hair out of my face.
She smiled brightly. "Sure, honey! Anything else to warm you up?" she chirped, taking the cup.
"Two lemon bars would be perfect," I replied, my stomach rumbling in agreement. "The ones with the shortbread crust, if you have them."
"Coming right up!" she chimed and left.
With a satisfied sigh, I slammed my laptop shut. The weekly dashboard - a visual representation of Ember and Co.'s progress - was finally finished.
As a data analyst at Ember and Co., a mid-sized company that provided a suite of products and services for businesses in the hospitality industry, especially hotels and restaurants, my job was to make sense of the chaos. My weekly dashboard was my masterpiece, a clear and concise snapshot of how our clients were performing.
Relief washed over me as my gaze drifted over to the big TV screen in the corner just as that Waitrose ad - #HomeForChristmas - started playing.
It dropped a few weeks before Christmas and had everyone talking. It was one of those ads that just grabbed your heart and gave it a good squeeze.
It was all about a brave little robin who goes on an epic journey to get back to its garden in the UK. It shows how the robin migrates from Scandinavia, through mountains, and seas and almost doesn't make it. And then there's the sweet moment when it finally gets back and meets up with its bird pal, and they share a mince pie left out by a thoughtful kid staring from her cozy living room.
The ad wraps up with a perfect snowy scene and the line "At Christmas, there's nothing quite like Waitrose."
A playful bark yanked me out of my daydream.
It was close, insistent.
As I scooted away from the window, I snuck a glance under the table and my eyes landed on the same scruffy little thief from the park - a furry ball of mischief with a wagging tail and a snout smeared with dirt, his big brown eyes looking into mine.
"Well, well, well, look who it is," I grinned, "the mitten thief."
He barked again, a happy, double-woof.
Before I could quip back, a young girl with her friends stopped by my table on their way out.
"Aww, he's so cute. What's his name?" she cooed, bending down to scratch his ears.
"Brutus," I replied, "but he's not mine. It's on his tag."
The girl reached for his collar, her fingers brushing against the worn leather.
"Oh no, this is way too tight. You should loosen it up a bit."
Just then, her friends, already outside, called for her. With a hurried goodbye and a wave to Brutus, she scurried outside after saying, "You should loosen his collar."
"Where's your owner, you cute thing," I mumbled, scratching behind his ears as I cast my gaze around the cafe.
No sign of him.
I scanned each face, hoping to catch the eye of the grumpy owner I saw with Brutus last time at the park.
Nothing.
Brutus barked again, a short, demanding ruff.
"Easy there, I don't speak bark," I teased, carefully lifting him onto the table to get a better look at the collar. That's when I noticed the ID tag - tucked awkwardly on his back instead of the usual place on the front.
As I fumbled with the clasp and finally freed the collar, a flash of green and red caught my eye. A guy in a garish elf costume, complete with a droopy hat and jingle bells on his shoes, stood beside my table.
"Miss, you can't have the dog in here," he said, gesturing towards a small sign on the window I'd never noticed before.
"Oh, no worries. He's not mine, he's just lost... I think," I reassured him, already searching for the familiar scowl that belonged to Brutus' owner.
The elf guy, however, seemed unimpressed.
"Excuse me, but does this dog belong to anyone?" he boomed, his voice echoing through the cafe.
Silence. Crickets.
He looked back at me, a frown etched on his face.
"Maybe his owner left already," I offered, feeling a pang of guilt for the oblivious dog now sprawled on the table.
Just as the elf guy made a move to grab Brutus, the dog bolted - a streak of brown fur disappearing through the cafe door as a new customer entered.
"Brutus!" I yelped, scrambling to my feet. But the door swung shut behind him, leaving me empty-handed and flustered.
"If he's not yours, then how do you know his name?"
"It's on his co - oh! The collar!" I stammered, finally registering the leather strap clutched in my hand. My mind raced. Shoving a twenty-dollar bill on the table, I slammed my laptop shut, shoved it into my bag, and bolted out the door after the runaway dog.
"Brutus!"
My eyes scanned the chaotic street, desperately searching for the flash of brown fur.
Relief flooded me when I spotted a small, familiar figure with its characteristically short legs disappearing down the stairs into the subway station.
Ignoring the burning in my lungs and the ache in my legs, I lengthened my stride into a full-on run and barreled towards the stairs.
Reaching the platform, I scanned the crowd, my breath coming out in ragged gasps. Then, I saw him - Brutus, tail wagging tentatively, standing beside a guy waiting for the approaching train.
"Excuse me," I called out, trying to steady my breathing. The guy turned, and a jolt of recognition shot through me. It was the same tall, angry bird from the park - the one with the perpetually scowling expression.
He was even more intimidating up close. Towering over me with his light brown eyes, he gave me a questioning look, one eyebrow raised high on his forehead. His beard, although not as scruffy as before, still held a wild charm, framing his ruggedly handsome face.
Ignoring the sudden flutter in my stomach, I stretched out my hand, the collar clutched in my palm. "Uh, hi. This is your dog's collar. It came loose."
He looked down at the leather strap in my hand with a bored indifference, then glanced down at Brutus before his gaze drifted towards the rumbling train pulling into the station. "Not my dog," he mumbled, his voice gruff. "He just follows me around."
Without another word, he stepped onto the train.
I stared after him, momentarily speechless. Finally, tearing my gaze away, I knelt down to Brutus.
I fumbled with the collar, carefully adjusting it so it wouldn't be too tight. Brutus squirmed happily as I finished, then with a final lick to my hand, he darted towards the open train doors.
Just as I locked eyes with Angry Bird, the doors slid shut with a hiss. He looked away, his expression unreadable.
The train lurched forward and chugged away into the dark tunnel.
As I stood there, my stomach growled with hunger, and I was suddenly hit with the realization that I had left my ordered lemon bars and heated coffee behind.
But exhaustion got the better of me, and I couldn't muster the energy to climb back up to the surface. So I resigned myself to waiting for the next train, my thoughts still lingering on the smart dog and the gloomy guy he followed around.