Across from her sat Elias, a man in his sixties with hands like weathered leather and eyes that had seen the inside of a hundred protest lines. Elias was a pillar of the local community, a bridge between the "Stonewall generation" and the kids finding their voices on TikTok.
She looked back at Elias, who was smiling softly. He didn't say a word; he just gestured toward the empty chair at their table.
"You look like you’re waiting for the floor to drop," Elias said, his voice a gravelly comfort.
The Neon Willow was more than a cafe; it was a sanctuary. Tucked between a vintage bookstore and a shuttered jazz club, its windows were etched with a simple silver leaf that caught the city’s grime and turned it into moonlight.