In the rush and pattern of delivering cup after cup, Gigi could be happy. She was at her best when the café bustled. She manned the espresso machine, drew feathered lines in milk, arranged plates with delicate doilies and pretty pastries, bussed tables and chatted with the guests. There wasn’t a job she wouldn’t do with a smile. It was when things got quiet she had a problem. That’s when it was hard. Some days it was just so difficult to move and smile and laugh and pretend like she didn’t read the newspapers, and couldn’t hear the screams.

The café was everything she dreamed it would be, and she’d poured every ounce of her devotion into it. But she still looked up every time the bell jingled, hoping for other faces. Her father, who would never see the success she’d achieved, dead at the claws of a youma that she could have – should have – been there to fight. Some days, even surrounded by all the things she loved, in a cocoon of her own design, it wasn’t enough to blot out what chaos had done, and despair was heartbeats away.

Then, she waited on the little jingly doorbell for a customer to focus on, a face to smile at.

Gigi leaned against her polished cashier counter, flipping pages in the cheeriest magazine she could dig up, and waited for someone to serve.