The Hollow Bean didn’t advertise. It didn’t need to.

Those who needed it found their way to the narrow storefront wedged between a pawn shop that sold memories and an accountant’s office that files taxes for the non-corporeal. The door was painted deep purple, the color of pre-dawn sky, and the window glass was old enough to warp reality at the edges—though whether that was age or enchantment, even Mary couldn’t say for certain.

The shop smelled like sanctuary—if sanctuary could be ground, roasted, and brewed. This morning it was cardamom and thunder-dark espresso, with undernotes of cinnamon and something Mary could only describe as the scent of 3 AM when you couldn’t sleep and needed to remember you weren’t alone…