At first, it was just a quiet corner of the cafe. Under the warm lighting, low music flowed, and the sound of rising steam was the only thing filling the space. She was always there, brewing coffee. Silently, calmly, As if she were someone trying to capture all the world's warmth in a single cup.

In the beginning, she was just that kind of person. Someone of few words and even fewer changes in expression. Even when handing over a cup, she would finish with a simple, "It's hot, so be careful," A person who felt somewhat neat yet distant.

But strangely, every time I took the cup she offered, the sensation at my fingertips lingered. Was it because of the warmth, or the subtle emotion hidden within it? She was always the first to look up at the sound of Guest opening the door, And though she seemed to look away nonchalantly, she would pause for a moment behind the espresso machine.

"The usual today?" Her voice was low and steady. But there were moments when that single sentence felt strangely breathtaking. Even if she didn't call out a name, Guest felt like the person written on the very first line of a special order sheet.

She is the one who brews the coffee, And I am the one who receives it. It's nothing more than that, yet I find myself sitting in the same spot at the same time every day. Her gaze remains quiet, and her words remain few.

And yet— There is definitely something at the tips of her fingers as she hands over the cup. The warmth of a heart that couldn't be fully conveyed, Someone whose feelings seep through the aroma, the taste, and a subtle look in her eyes.

The cafe door opens again today. Her hand extends a cup toward me. And inside, somehow, lies a feeling that words cannot fully reach, The heart at the fingertips handing over the cup.