I arrive at the cafe at 6.36 AM.
The sky is still a dull slate blue, smeared with traces of pink as dawn rolls in slow and quiet. I pause outside, my breath fogging in the chilly air, before unlocking the door with the spare key Yuna handed me yesterday. The metal is cool in my hand, the click of the lock unusually loud in the silence.
Inside, it's dim and still. Peaceful.
I don't turn on all the lights—just the soft glow behind the counter and a single lamp by the front window. The kind of light that doesn't chase the quiet away.
I set my bag down, take off my coat, and look around. I've never opened a place before. Never had keys that meant something other than just access. I stand still for a beat, then decide to make myself useful.
I grab a cloth and begin wiping down the counters. Sweep the floor. Check the napkin holders and sugar jars. It feels strange and grounding, all at once. Repetitive, humble work. My body moves on its own while my mind drifts. There's something calming about it—maybe because it doesn't ask me to think too much.
At 6.45 AM, the bell above the door chimes. I glance up, expecting to see Yuna. But it's Noah.
He steps inside like he always does—quiet, almost like he belongs to another atmosphere entirely. His coat is dark, scarf snug around his neck. His hands are tucked into his pockets, and his hair is slightly tousled from the wind.
"Morning," I say. I can't help the way my mouth lifts into a smile.
He gives a small nod and meets my gaze. "You're early, Knox."
The name still surprises me when it leaves his mouth, even though I chose it. Hearing it in his voice makes it feel real, like I've stepped into something new—something mine.
He steps behind the counter and sets his bag down. "Cleaning already?"
"I didn't know what else to do," I admit. "Figured I'd help."
"You did good." He scans the space, then moves to the stockroom door. "Let's check the supplies. Deliveries come soon."
I follow him, and together we go over the inventory. There's a quiet efficiency in the way he moves—no wasted steps, no fuss. He talks softly as he goes, explaining things without making it sound like a lecture.
After explained to me one and two things about supplies, Noah moves behind the counter, unlocking a small cabinet where the pastries are usually displayed. It's still empty, waiting for the morning deliveries. I glance at the labels—little handwritten tags clipped to the trays—and he notices.
"We don't make pastries in-house," he explains, his voice low and even. "Part of the cafe's concept. Everything sweet comes from someone in the neighborhood. Home kitchens. Small families. People who can't afford storefronts."
He opens a thick logbook, its pages filled with names, schedules, and notes in neat, slanted handwriting. "Ferrin delivers the croissants. He's seventy-two. Used to own a bakery for decades before his knees gave out. Retired, but baking's still his rhythm. He refuses to stop."
He flips the page. "The cupcakes? Nora. She's a single mom, early thirties. Bakes after her son falls asleep. Started with a hand mixer and an oven that doesn't heat evenly. But she's getting better each week."
He smiles slightly, like he's proud of them. I listen, quiet. I can feel his respect towards them and it's so heartwarming.
Noah continues, "The matcha chiffon cake is from a girl named Sharon. She's studying food science at the university. Shy, barely speaks when she delivers. But her cakes are always perfect. Like clouds. She bakes to cope with anxiety, I think. This place gives her a reason to keep going."
He runs his fingers along the edge of the counter. "There's also Mr. and Mrs. Campbell, a retired couple who make red bean buns. They always deliver together, wearing matching hats. Every Sunday, rain or shine. They told me this place makes them feel young again."
I find myself smiling. "You know all of them."
"Of course I do," he says simply. "They trust this place to carry their work. Their pride."
It hits me then—how deliberate it all is. Every choice Noah made. Every name in that book. This cafe isn't just a business. It's a patchwork of lives, stitched together with care and trust.
"They need this place," I say softly.
"And this place needs them."
And for the first time in a long while, I feel like I'm somewhere real.
He pauses, then glances at me. "Because this city runs too fast for most people. If we can give them space to breathe—to survive—that's enough."
I let that sit. It lands somewhere deep.
"So this cafe … it's not about profit?"
He shakes his head. "Of course we need to earn, but money's not the goal. This place was made to be lived in, not stripped for numbers. It has to mean something."
That explains a lot. The unassuming decor. The freedom of names. The second chances.
I lean against the counter. "I've never worked at a place like this." Well, I only worked in skyhigh building with nothing but suits, people pretending to be something, busy workers, serious faces ....
"There aren't many."
The door creaks as he opens it, letting the early morning air slip in as we wait for the day's deliveries. It's still quiet out. Just a few people walking dogs or biking past. The city hasn't fully woken up.
Noah disappears into the back, then returns a few minutes later with a small tray of ingredients.
"Hungry?"
I hesitate. "A little."
"Good. Let's make breakfast."
He moves easily through the kitchen, slicing vegetables, cracking eggs. He doesn't talk much while cooking, but the silence isn't awkward. It feels natural—like background music I didn't realize I missed.
I watch him move. Efficient. Calm. Focused. It's oddly soothing.
The smell of warm eggs and sautéed onions fills the café, mixing with the faint aroma of coffee grounds and fresh wood. I glance out the window. The sun has started to rise properly now, golden light spreading like a slow spill over the rooftops.
"Here," he says, handing me a plate.
I take it and sit by the window. He joins me, pulling his chair close.
We eat in comfortable silence for a few bites. Then I say, "Thanks. This is good."
He shrugs. "Don't expect gourmet every day."
"I won't," I say. "I'm just … not used to this."
"To what?"
"This quiet. This calm."
He glances at me. "Maybe you needed it."
I nod slowly. "Yeah. I think I did."
We eat in silence again, the kind that doesn't demand anything. Just the soft clink of forks and the warmth of shared space.
After a while, he says, "You're adjusting."
I look at him. "I'm trying."
He nods, then adds, "You don't need to rush it. This place isn't going anywhere."
I stare at my half-finished plate. "You really believe in this place, don't you?"
"I believe in what it could be. What people can find here."
And just like that, I understand something I didn't before.
The Personas isn't just a business. It's a haven. A quiet rebellion against the chaos outside. A place where people like Ferrin and the single mom, and even people like me—who've fallen out of orbit—can land again.
I look at Noah. Really look at him.
There's always been a distance in his eyes. A quiet weight. But there's also purpose. Kindness. Even if it's wrapped in mystery.
"What made you start this place?" I ask.
He exhales slowly. "Someone once told me … if you can't fix the world, make your corner of it kinder."
There's something final in the way he says it. Like a piece of his past closing behind a door I'm not meant to open.
So I just nod. "You did that. With this place."
He offers a faint smile. "Still trying."
Outside, a delivery bike pulls up. The day is beginning.
I stand, stretch lightly. "I'll get the door."
"No," he says, rising beside me. "You stay. You've already done more than enough this morning."
He moves past me and heads to the door. I glance around the café, still half-lit, half-asleep, and feel something new settle in my chest.
This isn't just a job.
It's something else.
Maybe even a way back to myself.