Fear?
Agreement?
Habit?
That would matter later.
The Blonde Cashier returned behind the counter.
The next ten minutes were strange.
Nobody knew whether to resume normal life.
Customers whispered.
The cashier pretended to wipe the espresso machine.
The Second Cashier checked her phone repeatedly.
The Founder finished the cortado despite disliking it.
He believed in finishing coffee he paid for.
At 8:47, the front door opened.
The Regional Director entered.
Dark navy suit.
No tie.
Company pin.
He stopped.
Saw the Founder.
Then the two cashiers.
His face changed.
The Blonde Cashier recognized him immediately.
“Sir.”
The Regional Director did not answer.
He walked toward the Founder.
The entire café watched.
Then he did something that ended every theory the staff had formed.
He held out his hand.
“Good morning.”
The Founder shook it.
“Morning.”
The Regional Director asked:
“How bad?”
The Founder looked at the cashier.
Then at the sign.
“Bad enough.”
The Blonde Cashier stepped forward.
“Wait.”
The Regional Director turned.
Her voice changed completely.
Professional.
Soft.
Controlled.
“I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”
The Founder looked at her.
Interesting.
Only eighteen minutes earlier she had told him he looked like he crawled out of an alley.
Now misunderstanding.
The Regional Director asked:
“What happened?”
The cashier looked toward the Founder.
“He was asked to finish his purchase because tables were needed.”
The laptop customer laughed out loud.
Everyone looked.
She raised one hand.
“Sorry.”
Then:
“That is not what happened.”
The Regional Director looked toward her.
“Were you here?”
“For all of it.”
The Blonde Cashier’s jaw tightened.
The Founder said:
“Don’t argue this in front of customers.”
The Regional Director nodded.
“Office.”
The Founder shook his head.
“Not yet.”
He stood.
Then walked behind the counter.
The Blonde Cashier instinctively moved to stop him.
The Regional Director said:
“Let him through.”
That sentence frightened her.
The Founder walked toward the back wall.
There was an old black-and-white photograph framed beside the employee hallway.
He had noticed it earlier.
The first store.
Twenty-nine years ago.
Tiny storefront.
Hand-painted sign.
Three tables.
And a younger version of himself standing beside the door.
No beard.
No hat.
Wide smile.
Coffee-stained apron.
The Founder pointed.
“Who is that?”
The Blonde Cashier followed his finger.
Her face drained.
The Second Cashier stepped closer.
Looked at the photograph.
Then at him.
Back to the photograph.
The younger employee near the dishwasher covered her mouth.
The Founder did not say anything.
He let recognition arrive naturally.
The Blonde Cashier whispered:
“No.”
The Founder looked toward her.
“You asked whether I knew anything about running a café.”