The terrace smelled of wet wood and citrus peel.
Rain had washed the salt lines away. The room looked washed clean, but nobody in it had been reset.
No marked seats. No coded cups. Just chairs drying in uneven sunlight and naked people arriving with the careful softness that follows a difficult decision. The table felt smaller without the invisible rules, and somehow more usable.
The morning had the quiet that comes after conflict, when people are no longer avoiding the truth but are not yet sure how to live with it. Someone had already set out bread, sliced oranges, and a bowl of apricots that looked too bright against the damp wood. The scent of coffee moved through the terrace in a way that made the whole room feel steadier.
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