Chapter 2

Clara wiped down the counter long after it was already clean. The cloth moved in slow circles, her mind drifting as the late morning sun slanted through the windows. A handful of customers lingered—two college students sharing earbuds and a notebook, an older man absorbed in his crossword puzzle. The shop had settled into its midmorning quiet, and Clara found herself restless.

She set the cloth aside and leaned against the counter, studying the shelves lined with syrups and neatly stacked mugs. This little shop had been her dream for so long that sometimes she still had trouble believing it was real.

She could remember the night she first scribbled the idea onto a napkin, back when she was still working shifts at the diner. She’d been nineteen, exhausted from school and waiting tables, but unable to shake the vision of a place that was warm and welcoming, a space people would come to not just for coffee but for comfort. A place that mattered.

Two years later, she’d emptied her savings account, signed papers that made her hands shake, and opened the doors to Moonlight Brews. She hadn’t told many people how close she’d come to failing that first year—how rent nearly drowned her, how equipment broke at the worst times, how she’d spent nights on the shop’s floor with spreadsheets spread around her like broken wings.

But she’d made it. Somehow.

Now, at twenty-three, this shop was hers. Every table, every mug, every flowerpot in the window had her fingerprints on it. She was proud, even if the long hours left little room for much else.

The bell above the door jingled again.

“Clara!”

She glanced up, her face brightening. June, her oldest friend, breezed in, her curls bouncing and her smile wide. Clara quickly poured a cup of coffee without needing to ask—two sugars, no cream—and slid it across the counter before June even reached it.

“You’re a lifesaver,” June sighed, wrapping her hands around the mug. She leaned on the counter, her sharp eyes sweeping over Clara. “You’ve been hiding in here again, haven’t you?”

“I own the place,” Clara said lightly, pouring herself a refill. “I’m not hiding. I’m…managing.”

June arched a brow. “Managing? Or avoiding?”

Clara chuckled, but she didn’t argue. June had known her too long. It was true—running the shop gave Clara an excuse not to think about the bigger picture. About the fact that while her friends were dating, traveling, building lives full of color, she stayed here, pouring coffee, watching the forest breathe at the edge of town.

She sipped her coffee and glanced toward the window. The tree line loomed, green and endless, the sunlight catching on shifting leaves.

“Don’t tell me you were staring out there again,” June said, following her gaze.

Clara shrugged. “It’s…beautiful.”

“It’s creepy,” June countered, lowering her voice. “My grandma used to tell me stories about people disappearing in those woods. Hunters, hikers, even that backpacker three years ago. They never found him.”

Clara shivered, though she tried to play it off with a smile. “That’s just town folklore.”

“Maybe,” June murmured, though her tone said she wasn’t convinced. She sipped her coffee, studying Clara with the kind of knowing look only a best friend could give. “You’re waiting for something, aren’t you?”

Clara blinked. “What do you mean?”

June tilted her head. “You’ve built this whole life here. You love it. But sometimes it feels like you’re…looking past it. Like you’re waiting for someone to walk through that door and change everything.”

Clara laughed, the sound soft but a little uneasy. “You’ve been reading too many romance novels.”

June grinned, but didn’t press further. Instead, she pulled out her phone, scrolling as she sipped her coffee. Clara turned back toward the counter, pretending to fuss with mugs, but her thoughts lingered on her friend’s words.

Waiting for someone.

She wouldn’t admit it out loud, but June wasn’t wrong. Clara didn’t know what she was waiting for—who she was waiting for—but sometimes, in the quiet moments, she felt the ache of it in her chest.

As if some part of her life hadn’t started yet.

The bell above the door rang again, and Clara’s heart gave an odd little jump.

But it was just another regular.

Not him. Not yet.