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We fall into the gentle rhythm of the café. I tie on my apron and begin arranging the pastry trays while Bea wipes down the tables, humming along to the music. Nonna moves between us, preparing the espresso machine.

“Lunetta,” she calls, nodding toward the front window, “bring cream to Signor Paolo, please.”

I lift the small silver tray and carry it to the round table by the window, where an older gentleman in a tweed coat is already unfolding his newspaper.

“Good morning, Signor Paolo,” I say with a small smile, setting the tray gently in front of him.

He glances up and beams. “Ah, my angel. You always bring the cream like it’s holy water.”

I feel my face warm as I laugh softly. “Nonna says everything tastes better with a little sweetness.”

“She’s right. Always has been.”

I shake a little cinnamon into his cappuccino, just the way he likes it. “Would you like an extra biscuit today?”

“You spoil me.”

As I return to the counter, the bell rings again, and a young mother steps in with her little boy clinging shyly to her skirt. He peeks up at me with wide eyes.

“Hello there,” I say softly, kneeling down just a little. I hold out a biscotto, wrapped neatly in a napkin. “This is for being very brave this morning.”

His small hands reach out to take it. “Grazie,” he whispers, eyes still round.

I smile. “You’re welcome.”

His mother thanks me and makes her order.

Bea leans over from the counter, smirking. “I told you—nun material.”

“I’m not,” I laugh, shaking my head as I stand again.

“Hmm,” she says, tapping her chin dramatically. “You say that now.”

“Everything deserves a little grace,” I say, brushing the crumbs from my apron.

The hours pass in a gentle rhythm—light chatter, soft music, the quiet clink of porcelain and silver spoons. Sunlight shifts across the floor, and the scent of warm bread fills every corner of the room.

When the clock nears two, Bea glances at it and sighs. “I should go. Mama’s waiting for me—she needs help with the hem on that wedding dress.”

“You’ve worked hard today,” Nonna says, wiping her hands on her apron. She opens the drawer and pulls out a few folded bills.

“Nonna—no,” Bea protests, raising her hands.

“Take it,” she insists, slipping the money into Bea’s hand with a firm nod. “And bring your mama some treats.”

She tucks a few almond cookies and a slice of lemon cake into a small paper bag, tying it with string before pressing it into Bea’s arms.

“You’ll make me fat,” Bea grins.

“You’ll grow sweeter,” Nonna replies, kissing her cheek.

Bea turns to me and pulls me into a hug after taking off her apron. “See you tomorrow?”

“Of course.”

“Don’t let her eat all the biscotti,” she whispers to Nonna before she walks away.

The bell jingles again as the door swings shut behind her.