The morning hum of the café had returned. Still, it felt manufactured to Celine—like someone had piped in the sound of grinders, chatter, and clinking cups to convince her reality was intact. The air was thick with the scent of roasted beans, milk froth, and sugar syrups, familiar comforts meant to anchor her, yet every inhale carried a bitter edge.

She moved through the motions—checking supply lists, noting sales, offering polite smiles to customers. Still, beneath it, her thoughts kept ...