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.
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