When the Quiet Burns

Rain pattered against the café windows, soft and rhythmic, like fingers tapping on a drum.

Lena wiped down the counter for the third time just to look busy - the late shift was slow, quiet, and dull.

Until he walked in.

A man with tired eyes, neat dark hair, and a suit that said he had given up on going home before midnight. He carried a laptop bag and exhaustion as if they weighed the same.

"Evening," he said softly, voice warm in a way that didn't match the rain.

"Long day?" Lena asked before she could stop herself.

He gave a breath of a laugh. "Long year."

She smiled before she could help it. "What can I get you?"

"Something with caffeine. And mercy."

She blinked, startled by the humor slipping through his monotone.

That was the first spark.
Small.
Easy to miss.

But sparks always start small.