Chapter 1 — Notes of Nostalgia

Clare

The café smelled exactly as Clare Donovan remembered: a blend of roasted coffee, aged wood, and the faint tang of something sweet—maybe cinnamon, maybe vanilla. The scent hit her the moment she stepped through the door, as if it had been waiting for her all these years. It unlocked a memory so vividly it was like stepping backward in time. She hesitated just inside the threshold, her fingers tightening on the strap of her leather satchel. The world seemed to pause, though the café hummed with quiet activity: a couple of older women chatting over tea by the window, a lone man hunched over a laptop in the far corner, and the gentle clinking of ceramic mugs at the counter.

Clare’s pulse thrummed in her ears, her confidence wavering. On the long drive from the city, she had rehearsed breezy greetings and nonchalant smiles, imagining herself as calm, collected, in control. But now, standing in this place she had both missed and avoided for years, she felt the weight of her absence like a stone strapped to her chest. Why now? Why had she chosen today to finally come back? The email she’d received the week before, an old listener praising the café, had stirred something. A reminder of what she’d left behind—and the fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, she could help.

The café hadn’t changed much, though wear and time had softened its edges. The mismatched chairs and tables were still there, some with deep new etchings that hadn’t been present when she and Ben used to spend late nights scribbling lyrics and dreaming big. The shelves along the walls still overflowed with secondhand books and vinyl records, their spines and covers creating a mosaic of faded colors. A lightbulb flickered above the counter, briefly casting the shelves in shadow before steadying again. Even the posters from open mic nights and poetry readings remained tacked to the walls, though they’d yellowed with age. And there, near the register, was the one that made her breath catch—a flyer for the series of performances she and Ben had once masterminded. “Live at the Café,” it declared in bold, slightly smudged letters, the dates below a relic of a time when they believed anything was possible.

For a moment, she considered turning around, escaping back to her car before anyone noticed her. But then the barista—Mia, if Clare remembered correctly—looked up from the counter and offered a bright, welcoming smile.

“Hi there! Can I get you something?” Mia’s voice was cheerful, her energy slicing through Clare’s haze of doubt.

Clare forced herself to approach the counter. “Hi. Um, just a latte, please. No sugar,” she said, her tone practiced but tight. She set her satchel down, aware of the weight of her recording equipment inside. The plan had seemed so simple in theory: come home, record a podcast episode about the café and the town’s history, and leave again. Except she hadn’t counted on how hard it would be to walk back into this place.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” Mia asked as she worked the espresso machine, her purple-ombre curls bouncing with each movement. The question wasn’t accusatory, just curious, but Clare still felt the sting of it.

“Actually, I am. Or, I was,” Clare replied, her voice soft, almost apologetic. “I grew up here.”

Mia raised an eyebrow, her expression shifting to one of intrigue. “No kidding? Well, welcome back. I guess that makes this a homecoming latte.”

Clare chuckled quietly, though the sound felt strained. “Something like that. It’s been... a while.”

Mia nodded as she poured the steamed milk into the cup. “Well, we’re glad to have you. First one’s on the house—it’s a little tradition we have for first-timers. Or, uh, first-time-in-a-long-timers.”

“Oh, thank you,” Clare said, genuinely startled by the gesture. “That’s really kind of you.”

Mia shrugged, a playful grin spreading across her face. “Just don’t forget to come back. We need all the caffeine addicts we can get. You know, to keep the lights on.”

The words were said lightly, casually, but Clare caught the underlying note of truth. She glanced around the space again, noticing for the first time the faint scuffs on the floor, the slightly fraying edges of the café’s upholstered chairs. A basket of “Take a Book, Leave a Book” novels near the door had dwindled to a sparse handful. The thought hollowed her chest.

Clare smiled faintly as she took the warm mug. “I’ll try not to be a stranger.”

She retreated to a small table near the back—the one she and Ben used to claim as their own. Her fingers brushed the surface, tracing the initials carved into the wood. Some of them were unfamiliar, from generations of newer patrons, but then her thumb caught on a familiar indentation. B.C. + C.D. It was faint, nearly worn away, but still there. A relic of a time when their futures had felt wide open, limitless.

She pulled out her laptop and microphone, arranging them with practiced precision. The café’s low buzz was perfect for background ambiance: the soft murmur of voices, the hum of the espresso machine, the occasional chime of the door as someone entered or left. It added texture to her recordings, a kind of authenticity. But her hands trembled slightly as she clicked open her recording software.

“Alright,” she murmured to herself, her voice trembling. She took a deep breath, centering herself before pressing record. “This is Clare Donovan, and you’re listening to ‘Turning Pages,’ the podcast where we explore the spaces and stories that shape us. Today, I’m in a place that’s very close to my heart—a small-town café that’s been a cornerstone of this community for decades. It’s more than just a business; it’s a space for connection, creativity, and shared dreams. And for me, it’s a place where some of my best memories—and biggest regrets—were made.”

She paused, her throat tightening. The words had come easily in the safety of her studio, but here, in the place she was describing, they felt heavier. She glanced down at the initials again, her thumb brushing the indentation.

“I’ll be talking more about the café’s history and its importance to this town,” she continued, forcing her voice to steady, “but first, I want to share a little bit about why I’m here. It’s been years since I’ve walked through these doors, years since I’ve seen the people who made this place feel like home. Coming back is... complicated. Nostalgia has a way of softening the edges of the past, but walking into this place, I realize those edges are still sharp.”

Clare stopped the recording and hovered her fingers over the keyboard, needing a moment to collect herself. She wrapped her hands around the warm mug, letting the heat seep into her palms, grounding her nerves.

And then she saw him.

Ben Carter walked in from the back hallway, a clipboard in one hand and a pen tucked behind his ear. He looked almost exactly as she remembered—tall and broad-shouldered, his dark blond hair curling out from under a beanie, and those piercing blue eyes that used to see right through her. But there was something heavier about him now, a weight in his posture, in the set of his jaw. He scanned the room, his expression distracted, until his gaze landed on her.

Her breath caught. For a second, neither of them moved. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but the words tangled in her throat. Ben’s expression shifted from surprise to something colder, guarded. His shoulders stiffened, his grip on the clipboard tightening. He gave her a curt nod before turning to Mia at the counter, muttering something Clare couldn’t hear.

Her chest tightened. She had known this moment would come, but she hadn’t expected it to sting so much. She turned back to her laptop, pretending to adjust her recording settings, though her fingers trembled on the keys. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ben glance her way again, his jaw tightening further.

The café suddenly felt smaller, the air heavier. Clare took a slow sip of her latte, willing herself to focus. This was just the beginning, she reminded herself. The first step in what would undoubtedly be a long, complicated journey.

But as she looked at Ben again, at the tension in his shoulders and the storm in his eyes, she couldn’t shake the feeling that some things might never be the same.