The next morning came with the smell of burnt toast and too many notifications.  
Daphne’s phone buzzed nonstop on the counter, lighting up with messages from strangers who suddenly cared about her life.  

“Your restaurant is on Explore!” Finn yelled from the doorway, waving his phone like a trophy. “Hashtag MerrySpoon is everywhere!”  

Daphne blinked at him through a cloud of steam from the coffee pot. “Congratulations to us, then. Do viral views pay the rent?”  

“Not yet, but people are making edits of you smiling at Caius. That’s basically free marketing.”  

She groaned, pouring coffee into two chipped mugs. “Perfect. I’ve become a meme.”  

Caius appeared from the back hallway as if summoned by sarcasm, carrying a half-functional camera rig. “Correction,” he said, “you’ve become content.”  

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”  

“It’s supposed to make you money, eventually.”  

He set his equipment on the counter, scrolling through his feed. Every few seconds, another comment popped up, a mix of praise, teasing, and unsolicited advice.  

Daphne peered over his shoulder. “Why are people arguing about whether I’m real?”  

“Because the internet can’t process sincerity,” he said. “They think every emotion is marketing.”  

“Then what do you call yours?”  

“Deflection.”  

She rolled her eyes and handed him a mug. “Drink. You sound dehydrated from being ironic.”  

By noon, a small crowd had gathered outside the restaurant. Some were curious; others were there for selfies.  

Finn tried to manage the chaos, holding a handwritten sign that said *We’re Still Cooking*.  

Mira arrived moments later, heels clicking like a metronome of disapproval.  

“Congratulations,” she said, stepping inside. “You’ve achieved fame without income. That’s a rare art form.”  

“Working on the income part,” Daphne said, balancing plates.  

“You’ll need a menu update, an accountant, and possibly a bouncer.”  

Caius leaned against the counter. “I volunteer for the last one.”  

“You’d start more fights than you’d stop,” Mira said.  

He smirked. “That’s still crowd engagement.”  

Daphne shot him a look. “You’re banned from marketing meetings.”  

“Good. Meetings ruin the magic.”  

The day stretched on, filled with clinking dishes, half-burned toast, and flashes from phones.  

Every new customer seemed to know her story already. Some offered advice; others just stared.  

For every encouraging word, there was a quiet murmur about how long it would last.  

By late afternoon, she escaped to the back alley for air. The scent of rain-soaked concrete and frying oil mixed in the wind. Caius followed, holding two cans of soda like peace offerings.  

“You’re supposed to be filming, not stalking,” she said.  

“I call it documentation.” He handed her a can. “You handled today better than most would.”  

“I didn’t cry in public, if that’s what you mean.”  

“That counts as progress.”  

She leaned against the brick wall, staring at the puddles glinting under the gray sky. “It feels weird. Everyone suddenly cares about something they never saw before.”  

“That’s the trick with attention,” Caius said quietly. “It arrives like thunder and leaves like smoke.”  

“Poetic. Is that your content voice?”  

“It’s my real one. Don’t tell anyone.”  

She smiled despite herself. “Your secret’s safe.”  

He hesitated, then said, “You know, I could help. If you let me.”  

“With what—damage control?”  

“With direction. If people are already watching, let’s give them something worth watching.”  

She studied him for a long moment. His tone wasn’t teasing this time. “You’re serious.”  

“As serious as a man with too many followers and no idea what to do with them.”  

A gust of wind sent raindrops across her face. She laughed softly. “Fine. But if this backfires, you get the blame.”  

“I’ll take it.”  

They clinked their cans together like a fragile toast.  

That night, the restaurant looked different.  

Caius had rearranged the lights, moved the tables closer to the small open space near the mural, and set up a single mic stand he’d borrowed from a friend.  

Daphne walked in, blinking. “What did you do?”  

“Reinvention,” he said. “Live nights. Music, stories, maybe dancing if the floor holds.”  

“We can’t afford performers.”  

“Then we improvise. People love authenticity.”  

“People also love free things. Are we charging?”  

“Not at first. We’re building curiosity, not profits.”  

She exhaled. “You make chaos sound strategic.”  

He smiled. “That’s the goal.”  

Finn appeared, dragging an extension cord. “If the power goes out again, I’m quitting.”  

“Noted,” Daphne said.  

When the first group of locals wandered in, unsure and shy, she turned up the music—a mellow tune with a heartbeat rhythm. Someone began tapping their foot.  

Then a young couple stood up and danced awkwardly near the mural.  

Laughter followed—small, genuine, contagious.  

Caius lifted his camera, caught the moment, and then, for once, didn’t post it. He just watched.  

Across the room, Daphne looked back at him. The light was soft, the music steady, and for a fleeting moment the place didn’t feel broken anymore.  

-------By the second week of their newfound fame, exhaustion set in.  

The restaurant stayed open later each night; the tables filled faster, but so did the complaints.  

The fryer died twice, the air conditioner refused to cooperate, and someone left a one-star review because the napkins weren’t symmetrical.  

Daphne tried to smile through it, though her hands ached from endless dishes.  

Caius helped where he could—mostly filming, sometimes fixing, always talking.  

“Why do people come if all they do is criticize?” she asked one night, wiping down the counter.  

“Because complaining makes them feel involved,” he said. “It’s how audiences participate.”  

“I wanted dancing, not debates.”  

“Welcome to reality. We specialize in unsolicited opinions.”  

Finn poked his head out from the kitchen. “We’re out of ketchup packets again!”  

“Add it to the apocalypse list,” Daphne said.  

Caius chuckled. “You need a manager.”  

“I need peace and functioning appliances.”  

He set his phone down. “Take a break. Let me handle the floor.”  

She frowned. “You don’t even know the menu.”  

“I’ll improvise. I’m good at sounding confident.”  

Against her better judgment, she agreed. For thirty minutes, he took orders with exaggerated charm, turning mistakes into jokes that somehow worked. Customers laughed.  

When she returned, the room felt lighter.  

“You might survive this after all,” he said, handing her the apron.  

“Or die trying,” she replied.  

“That’s the spirit.”  

Later that week, Mira cornered them with spreadsheets.  

“The attention spike is plateauing,” she said. “You need a long-term plan.”  

“Define long term,” Daphne said.  

“Longer than your patience.”  

Caius leaned over the table. “Maybe we make the restaurant a hub—music nights, open mics, pop-ups.”  

“That costs money,” Mira said.  

“Or we let sponsors cover it,” Caius countered. “They already want in.”  

Daphne froze. “Sponsors?”  

He nodded. “Brands. They think you’re authentic. They want to borrow that.”  

She stared at him, uneasy. “So now we sell our soul to the highest bidder?”  

“Or we use their money to keep the doors open.”  

The silence that followed was thick enough to stir with a spoon.  

Finally, she said quietly, “I’ll think about it.”  

That night, after everyone left, Daphne sat alone in the half-dark dining room.  

The mural glowed faintly under the string lights, colors bleeding like old memories.  

Outside, the rain had stopped; the street was slick and shining.  

Caius appeared, wordless, setting a take-out box beside her.  

“You didn’t eat dinner,” he said.  

“I forgot.”  

He sat across from her. “You’re thinking about the sponsors.”  

“I’m thinking about how easy it is to lose the reason I started.”  

He leaned forward. “Then don’t. Let me worry about the noise.”  

“You can’t filter everything.”  

“Maybe not. But I can stand between you and the worst of it.”  

She looked at him, searching for the mockery that was usually there. It wasn’t.  

Only quiet certainty.  

“Why are you doing this?” she asked.  

He hesitated, then said, “Because this place feels like the first honest thing I’ve touched in years.”  

The words hung between them like fragile glass.  

For a while, they ate in silence. The hum of the refrigerator filled the space, steady and low.  

When Daphne finally spoke, her voice was soft.  

“Tomorrow, we try again.”  

Caius smiled faintly. “Of course we do.”  

Outside, the city lights blinked like tired stars, and the old restaurant—still imperfect, still alive—breathed quietly into another uncertain dawn.