Jun didn't check the mail often.
Not because he forgot.
Because most days, it was empty. Or worse—filled with reminders of things that didn't care if he brewed well, or poured right, or showed up every morning like the city owed him nothing.
But that morning, after folding the cloth twice and laying it into the cart, he checked the small, rust-lined box beside the doorframe of his building.
There was only one envelope.
Cream-colored.
No logo.
Just a thin black line across the top and his name below it, printed in careful block letters.
"Jun."
No last name.
Just that.
It felt right.
He didn't open it there.
Didn't need to.
He knew.
---
The plaza smelled different.
Not sharper.
Just fuller.
The breeze carried something sweet from the west side vendor alley—maybe early sugar bread or grilled yam. The kind of smell that didn't push, just settled into space.
Jun moved like he always did.
Tote over his shoulder.
Grinder handle tucked under one arm.
