Hannah Scott was not the kind of woman who asked for help easily. She served coffee with tired eyes and a steady hand. She remembered every regular’s order. She smiled at rude customers until they felt ashamed of themselves. She kept her pain folded behind her apron like a receipt she refused to throw away.
I had been watching her for months.
Not in a creepy way. At least, I hoped not.
I came into Gilded Spoon twice a week after work because the soup was hot, the coffee was strong, and Hannah always set my mug down before I asked.
“Black coffee, no sugar,” she’d say.
“Still trying to save my soul?” I’d answer.
“Too late for that, Theo.”
Then she’d smile and walk away, and my whole miserable day of crawling through basements and rewiring busted panels would feel less heavy.
That night, she didn’t smile.
She slid into the seat across from me during the dinner rush, which she never did. Her manager was yelling at a dishwasher in the back. Rain hit the front windows. Outside, yellow cabs hissed through puddles on the Brooklyn street.
