The morning bustle returned to the café, but the air carried a different weight. The hiss of the espresso machine, the rattle of cups, the chatter of customers—it all felt thinner, more fragile. Every sound seemed laced with the memory of the festival’s chaos.

Celine stood behind the counter with her notebook open, carefully tallying last night’s losses. Syrup bottles cracked, cups wasted, beans scattered across the plaza. She wrote the numbers down neatly, though her hand trembled ...