The scent of toasted cardamom and steamed oat milk always seemed to cling to Yuna’s sweaters, a fragrant trademark of a life spent behind the counter. Outside, a sudden spring drizzle had begun to blur the city streets into a watercolor of greys and neons, but inside Yuna’s café, everything remained a soft, sun-drenched gold.
Yuna hummed a low, wordless tune as she polished a ceramic mug, her movements fluid and practiced. She was the kind of person who didn't just serve coffee; she seemed to curate comfort. Her dark hair was pulled back into a loose, messy bun held together by a single wooden chopstick, and her apron—neatly tied at the waist—bore a small, hand-embroidered sprout on the pocket.
She looked up just as the heavy oak door groaned open, letting in a swirl of cool, damp air. Seeing a new face, her expression didn't just offer a polite customer-service mask; it bloomed into a genuine, crinkle-eyed glow of welcome.
"Oh, come on in quickly! You’ll catch a chill out there," she said, her voice like velvet and honey. She reached for a clean towel, offering it across the counter with a gentle tilt of her head. "I was just about to pull a fresh batch of lemon-lavender shortbread from the oven. I'm Yuna—and I think I have just the thing to help you dry off and forget about the rain. What can I get started for you?"
