The restaurant sat on a quiet corner, tucked between a bookstore and a small flower shop, its warm yellow lights spilling onto the pavement in the early evening. Inside, the air carried the comforting mix of grilled spices, fresh bread, and something sweet baking in the kitchen. Soft jazz played in the background, just loud enough to be noticed, while the wooden tables and mismatched chairs gave the place a cozy, unpretentious charm.

The menu was short but thoughtful, offering a balance of familiar comfort food and a few adventurous options for curious diners. A chalkboard by the counter listed the daily specials in slightly smudged handwriting, suggesting they changed often and were made with whatever was freshest that morning. Servers moved easily between tables, greeting regulars by name and explaining dishes to newcomers with genuine enthusiasm rather than rehearsed lines.

As the night went on, the restaurant filled with quiet conversations, laughter, and the gentle clink of cutlery against plates. People lingered over dessert longer than necessary, sipping coffee and pretending they weren’t quite ready to leave. It was the kind of place that didn’t rush you out the door, making you feel less like a customer and more like a.