Nine Twenty-Three

She came in every morning at exactly nine twenty-three, always with a book in one hand and that same quiet smile that never quite reached her eyes. I learned her order before I ever learned her name. Sometimes, I started making it the moment the bell above the door rang. She never stayed long, never talked much, but somehow, her presence filled the whole café.

That morning, she lingered by the counter longer than usual. I was about to ask if something was wrong when she smiled, really smiled this time, and left a napkin beside her empty cup. I didn't notice the writing until she was already gone.

A name.
A number.
And suddenly, the coffee didn't feel so bitter anymore.