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The morning unfolded quietly, much like the others before it, but something about Naomi's words from yesterday lingered.
"You really should try that new café across the street."
Amara rarely listened to such invitations. Cafés, lunch spots, idle moments—those belonged to people who had time to float through life. Hers was made of needles and threads, of fabric that obeyed the steady discipline of her hands.
And yet, this morning, her steps slowed in front of the little café Naomi had mentioned. The sweet scent of freshly baked pastries drifted through the air, and before she could talk herself out of it, she found herself stepping inside.
It was smaller than she expected, with wooden chairs, soft cushions, and shelves lined with books no one seemed to read. The place was warm, but not too busy, and it offered a window seat with a view of the street—perfect for someone who didn't want to be bothered.
Amara ordered a slice of chocolate cake and a cup of tea, unsure if she even liked chocolate cake. She'd only come to satisfy her curiosity, to prove Naomi wrong.
"I don't have time for cafés."
"You never have time for anything outside this shop."
Maybe she did, after all.
The cake was sweet, the tea comfortably warm, but her mind wandered as she slowly worked through her plate. She wasn't used to sitting still without a needle between her fingers.
She let her gaze drift to the people passing by outside. Some rushed past, others strolled lazily, their lives unspooling in a rhythm so different from her own.
And then, through the glass, she saw her.
Lilian.
She was standing across the street, near an alley, her delicate frame wrapped in an elegant coat. But it wasn't Lilian's beauty that caught Amara's attention—it was the way she moved. Restless. Unsettled.
Lilian glanced around, as though making sure she wasn't being watched. She spoke quickly to a man Amara didn't recognize—someone older, sharp-eyed, his coat slightly worn at the edges. His posture didn't suggest friendship. It felt more like business.
Amara watched as Lilian handed him something—a small envelope—and the man tucked it into his pocket without so much as a nod. They didn't shake hands. They didn't smile. Whatever passed between them wasn't warm.
Lilian adjusted her coat, her face smoothing back into the perfect, charming expression Amara had seen at the shop. She crossed the street and disappeared into a waiting car as though nothing had happened.
Amara stared at the empty spot where Lilian had stood just moments before, her tea now cold in her hands.
She didn't know what she had just witnessed.
A private matter? A harmless exchange?
Or something more?
There was no proof of anything. No reason to assume the worst. And yet, her instincts stirred like a thread pulled too tightly, threatening to snap.
It wasn't enough to mean anything—not yet. But it was enough to stay with her, tucked quietly in the back of her mind.
Finishing her cake slowly, Amara felt the weight of the thought settle quietly in her chest.
Some things were not as they seemed.
But she didn't give much thought, "it wasn't her fight."
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