Every day at our café starts with the promise of a new beginning. In the gentle quiet of early morning, when the world outside is still awakening, I make my way into the cozy space of the café—keys jangling softly, apron tied carefully around my waist. The aroma of freshly baked cinnamon buns intertwines with the robust notes of dark roast coffee, filling the air with a nostalgic warmth that is both comforting and energizing. At this time, only a few tables are occupied; a sense of calm anticipation lingers as we prepare for the day ahead.

On this particular morning, as soft sunlight streamed through the windows and highlighted the subtle details of our décor, I noticed a scene that quietly tugged at my heart. Amid the sparse bustle of early patrons, one table in particular caught my attention—the large, round table by the window. It was a table we often reserved for celebrations and gatherings, and today it was adorned with pink streamers, a box of cake sitting untended beside a small purse, and a vase containing a modest arrangement of faded daisies. Although the decorations suggested that a special celebration should be underway, something was unmistakably amiss.