local coffee

To smell—

really smell—

the warmth and wood and quiet safety

in a local coffee shop…

That’s the moment she settled in.

A black Americano in hand,

she sank into the wooden bench along the glass wall,

the kind of seat that makes you feel

like the day might open itself to you.

Outside, rain fell steady.

She watched it gather on the tent outside,

watched a man jump up to push water off his canopy—

a tiny scene that somehow felt soft,

almost comforting.

She breathed it all in.

The rain.

The warmth.

The hush of this little corner of the world.

To know her—

to really understand her—

you’d need to see her in moments like this:

the woman who quietly observes,

the one who slips into stillness

to hear herself again.

Is there a love

that sees her like this?

The local, the visitor,

the woman yet to be fully known or pursued?

She writes from overflow—

from the place where words rise

without asking permission.

Adventure is waiting.

It always has been.

For her, for anyone willing to say yes.

So go.

Make your way.

Don’t let fear tell you

where you can and cannot go.

You get to choose your way.

She takes another sip.

Watches the rain.

Feels the quiet shift inside her.

And decides—softly—

that she will not let fear stand in her way today.