The small brass bell above the wooden door chimed cheerfully as I pushed it open. The shop was warm, filled with the smell of freshly roasted espresso beans, sweet cinnamon, and quiet mornings.

“Welcome in, what can I get started for—”

The cheerful voice behind the wooden counter suddenly faltered, breaking off mid-sentence. I looked up from my leather wallet.

Standing there, wearing a stained brown canvas apron over a plain, faded black t-shirt, with a green plastic nametag crookedly pinned to her chest, was Chloe.

She looked older. The shallow polish of her teenage years in the Hamptons was gone, replaced by the tired, grounded, and undeniable reality of a twenty-one-year-old woman working long shifts on her feet for minimum wage.

But as our eyes locked across the glass pastry case, I noticed something else entirely. There was a quiet humility in her gaze, a real sorrow and understanding that had never once existed within the perfect gardens of our past.