The Personas glows with warmth this morning.
Outside, Cortez is all frost and breath clouds, but in here, cinnamon and vanilla float in the air, and Chloe hums along to the slow jazz playlist while we sweep, wipe, refill. I don't mind the early shift when it feels like this—clean light through the windows, chairs turned down one by one, the quiet before the first cup is poured.
Noah is at the door, already speaking softly to the morning suppliers. One of them brings in a large box tied with red twine. Another carries two trays with delicate care, like they're holding snowflakes. Their breath fogs in the air as they hand over packages with bowed heads and cheerful murmurs.
Christmas pastries. They finally arrived.
