Chapter 4 — The Watchkeeper’s Wisdom

Isla

The Ivy Ink Coffeehouse smells like roasted dreams today—or maybe just the cinnamon they’ve been sprinkling over the cappuccinos. The soft creak of wooden chairs and the shuffle of pages from scattered books add to the warm hum of conversation. I lean against the counter, waiting for my chai latte, and let my eyes wander over the usual suspects. There’s the poetry group in the corner, snapping their fingers at something I can’t hear. A woman with bright yellow headphones sketches furiously in a notebook, her pencil moving like it’s chasing something she’s afraid to lose. A man by the window mutters to himself, crossing out lines in a script. And then there’s Walt, sitting at his usual table near the window, his bowtie slightly askew, a book propped open in one hand.