The morning after the dance night felt like the last page of a good book—satisfied but not done. Daphne stood over a pan of simmering berries, stirring gently until the sauce glossed like a promise. Finn balanced on a stool labeling jars: STRAWBERRY (S), STRAWBERRY (LESS S), and STRAWBERRY (WE TRIED).

“Accurate taxonomy,” Caius said, appearing with two coffees and a face that hinted at three hours of sleep. “How’s our reputation?”

“Alive,” Mira said, scrolling. “Attendance posts did well. Comment sentiment: eighty percent warm, fifteen percent skeptical, five percent ‘marry me, Daphne.’ I’ve flagged those.”

Finn raised a hand. “What about ‘marry me, Finn’?”

“Statistically invisible,” Mira said without mercy.

Daphne hid a smile behind the steam. “Today, we breathe. No surprises, no rumors, no—”

The door chimed. A city inspector stood there in an official jacket and an unofficial smile. “Morning. I received a notification about increased foot traffic and an event. Routine check.”

Mira stepped forward like a knight with spreadsheets for armor. “Permits were filed, capacity observed, exits unobstructed. Would you like a tour with facts?”

The inspector blinked. “Yes?”

They disappeared into the dining room. Caius leaned close to Daphne. “You handled last night like a magician with good posture.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“It’s a description I’m jealous of.”

He hesitated, then added quietly, “About Evelyn—”

“She’s part of your story,” Daphne said. “I’m not a plot twist who demands edits.”

“I don’t want this to read like a triangle.”

“Then write a better shape.”

His mouth tilted. “A line?”

“A path,” she said, and returned to the berries.

The inspector reappeared with Mira, looking—if not charmed—then at least fully toured. “You’re in compliance,” he said. “One suggestion: mark the dance area as multi-use space on your layout. Also, whoever caught the lemonade last night deserves a medal.”

“That would be Mira,” Daphne said.

“I don’t accept medals,” Mira replied. “They snag on jackets.”

After he left, Finn peeked out the window. “Uh… there’s a camera crew across the street.”

Caius groaned softly. “Evelyn’s team.”

The crew filmed the sign, the windows, the mural visible through the glass. A producer waved cheerfully through the door. “We’re grabbing B-roll for a city piece! Mind if we get the neon at night later?”

Daphne opened her mouth with the firm syllables of boundaries ready to go, but Caius touched the counter and shook his head once, gentle. “I’ll handle it.”

He stepped outside. The conversation happened in gestures: hands explaining, heads nodding, a laugh, a line drawn in the air that both sides saw. He came back, eyes bright.

“They’re doing a general montage,” he said, “and we’re a frame, not the subject. They’ll credit us and tag our nights, no shots inside without permission. Also, Evelyn says hi and sorry about the coat.”

“Her coat survived,” Daphne said. “It endured citrus with dignity.”

“Like you,” he said, then looked mortified by his own sentence.

Finn clutched his chest. “I felt that in my pancreas.”

Mira stacked the last of the labeled jars. “If we’re done complimenting people’s fabric and fortitude, we have prep to finish. The open mic starts at seven.”

“Who’s performing?” Daphne asked.

Mira consulted her list. “A poetry duo called Salt & Spoon, a comedian who promises to keep it kind, a tap dancer with a portable board, and Jamie with a magic trick labeled ‘Trust Me.’”

“Jamie’s tricks are two parts confidence, one part gravity,” Caius said. “We should buy extra napkins.”

Evening arrived wearing a velvet kind of blue. The room filled again—not as crowded as the night before, but steady. Salt & Spoon read a poem that sounded like steam leaving a kettle. The tap dancer turned the floor into punctuation. The comedian told a story about a first date and a sandwich, and the punch line landed with the softness of a pillow instead of a slap.

Then Jamie climbed onto the Brave Square with a shoebox and dignity. “Tonight,” he announced, “I will turn a napkin into forgiveness.”

“Finally,” Mira whispered. “A practical magic.”

Jamie shook the napkin, tapped the box, and looked offended when nothing happened. He tried again with more ceremony. Still nothing. He stared at the napkin like it had violated a contract.

Daphne stepped forward. “May I?”

Jamie handed her the napkin. She folded it once, twice, three times, then opened it with a flourish she didn’t know she had. A small paper heart fell out—the work of Finn’s pocket and ten seconds.

The room sighed, then clapped, then laughed the way people do when a trick fails and becomes better on the way down.

Jamie bowed. “It worked in rehearsal.”

“It worked now,” Daphne said. “Different ending, same magic.”

Caius filmed that part. Not the failure—the recovery. He posted it with a caption: *When the plan doesn’t listen, improvise with tenderness.*

By closing time, the floor was scuffed in new directions. The tip jar held generous bills and a note that read, *Your square helped my knees remember music.* Daphne wiped the counter with slow circles and allowed herself the smallest burst of pride that refused to leave.

Caius leaned beside her. “Evelyn’s studio offered me a rotating slot on the series. I said yes—with terms.”

“What terms?”

“That I keep this place off the conveyor belt. We’re not an ‘episode.’ We’re a place. I won’t slice you into sixty seconds.”

She looked at him. “Thank you.”

“I like us in full length,” he said, then blushed like someone who’d tripped on the right word.

Mira locked the register. “Tomorrow: vendor meeting, oven installation, and a conversation with the bank that I will conduct in my war voice.”

“What’s the difference between your normal voice and your war voice?” Finn asked.

“In war voice, I say the same things and people listen faster.”

They turned off the main lights. The string bulbs stayed on, patient and low. Outside, a breeze jingled the door chime twice, like a shy encore.

At the threshold, Caius hesitated. “You told me to write a path. I think I found a trailhead.”

“Good,” Daphne said. She reached for the switch and stopped halfway. “One more second.”

They listened. The room hummed—fridge, lights, memory. Somewhere beyond the mural, the city breathed. Inside the taped lines of the Brave Square, dust floated like quiet confetti the janitor would never have to sweep, and the night held.

“Okay,” she said at last.

The lights clicked off. The square remained in the dark, perfectly brave.