The first set belonged to a singer with a voice like rain deciding to stay. She stood in the Brave Square and leaned into the mic as if it were a confession booth that gave good advice. People swayed without asking permission from their knees.

Between songs, Finn whispered to Daphne, “Should we add a dessert special called ‘Thin Margin?’ It could be a slice you have to balance on your fork while thinking about rent.”

“Tempting,” she said. “But we already serve that. It’s called ‘pie.’”

The second performer was a juggler who promised to respect glassware. He tossed apples instead, and when one apple tried to defect, Jamie sprinted, caught it, and took a bow so deep it invented gravity again.

Mira watched the door, the tables, the taped lines, her brain counting with the affection of a strict aunt. When Evelyn slipped in for a moment, Mira simply nodded: acknowledged, cataloged, not an emergency.

Caius returned at nine-fifteen with hair that looked wind-negotiated and eyes that were loud even when his mouth wasn’t. He hovered at the threshold as if the room were a pool and he had to remember how to step into water.

“How did it go?” Daphne asked when he reached the counter.

“They liked it,” he said. “I told a story about a sandwich and a sidewalk musician, and a kid who corrected my framing. They asked for a series of ‘small victories.’ I said yes. Then I came here to find one.”

“Greedy,” she said, smiling.

“Accurate.”

He lifted his camera and then didn’t use it. “Can I… help? Or should I disappear and work on credits and lower thirds like a responsible adult?”

“You can bus tables and make the room feel taller,” she said. “That’s your specialty.”

He saluted, then bumped into a chair, bowed to the chair, and kept going. The chair accepted his apology with grace.

Evelyn approached during a lull, holding a to-go cup like it contained classified information. “I’m not staying,” she said. “Just confirming the crew got their dusk shot. They did. Also, for the record—your square is a better editor than I am.”

“Flattering,” Daphne said. “Squares rarely get praise.”

“Then consider this an architectural compliment.” Evelyn glanced at Caius, now wiping a table with sincere intensity. “He looked lighter leaving the studio. He looks anchored here.”

“Gravity has excellent taste,” Daphne said.

Evelyn’s mouth did a small, thoughtful thing. “You’re good for him. Try not to let that turn into pressure.”

“I know the difference,” Daphne said.

“Do you?” Evelyn asked, not unkindly.

Daphne opened her mouth, then closed it. “I’m learning.”

“Good.” Evelyn tapped the lid of her cup. “If you ever need someone to point a camera at your hands and not your face, call me. People trust hands.” Then she left, and the door seemed to consider following her before deciding to behave.

The final set belonged to a tap dancer who brought a portable board and the kind of shoes that write letters. He filled the Brave Square with punctuation: commas, ellipses, one exclamation point that got an involuntary whoop from Finn, who then looked around as if the whoop required a permit.

Between clacks, Caius drifted back to the counter. “They asked if I’d do a piece on this place,” he said.

“Did you say yes?” Daphne asked lightly, as if the answer were a candle flame she didn’t want to breathe on.

“I said I’m already doing a piece.” He tapped his chest. “It doesn’t need their logo.”

She didn’t reach for his hand. She reached for a napkin and pushed it toward him like a small, soft award. “For service to the room.”

He pinned it to his shirt with theatrical delicacy. “I will wear this with the gravity it deserves.”

“You can also wipe spills with it.”

“I refuse to diminish its honor.”

Jamie's magic intermission involved a deck of cards that had seen life. He asked Caius to pick one, asked Daphne to shuffle, asked Mira to “breathe gently in an administrative way.” When he revealed the chosen card by pulling it from behind the neon sign, several people applauded, and one person asked how. Jamie looked offended. “I respect secrets,” he said. “Please do the same.”

Closing time wandered closer. The crowd thinned to people who lingered as if chairs could tell stories. Finn stacked plates with the flair of a plate-stacking champion no one knew existed. Mira locked the tip jar with a tiny key that made a hilarious but dignified click.

“Numbers?” Daphne asked.

“Good,” Mira said. “Better than last Thursday, comparable to Saturday before last, two percent bump on desserts.” She nodded toward the oven. “Backbone earned its keep.”

“Backbone appreciates your feedback,” Finn told the oven, which glowed in stoic acceptance.

Caius returned a final tray to the kitchen and met Daphne at the pass. “There’s a thing I should say,” he began.

“Is it a good thing?” she asked.

“It’s a true thing.”

“Then say it.”

He inhaled. “When I’m at the studio, I’m an echo chamber with lighting. Here, I’m a person who drops forks and gets forgiven.”

“That sounds like two good jobs,” she said.

“It feels like one true address.”

She did not kiss him. This was a restaurant; there were rules; also, her hands were full of a dish towel that suddenly felt like a plot device. Instead she said, “Help me test the oven one more time.”

“Is this code?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “For pie.”

They baked after hours: one blueberry, one apple, one reckless experiment called ‘whatever-we-have tart.’ The room smelled like a soft idea of childhood. Finn and Jamie sat at a corner booth trading victories of the day. Mira did the books with the stern joy of someone who believes in columns the way other people believe in constellations.

“Ready?” Daphne asked.

“Always,” Caius said.

She sliced into the blueberry. The crust spoke. Steam curled up like a ribbon that knew its choreography. They ate with spoons because waiting for cooling would have been a crime against midnight.

“Notes?” Daphne asked.

“Notes,” Caius said, squinting like a judge who had misplaced his wig. “Blueberry: convincing. Apple: sentimental in a good way. Mystery tart: chaotic good—sorry. I mean… adventurous moral alignment.”

She laughed. “We’ll fix the grammar of the crust tomorrow.”

He set the spoon down. “One more true thing,” he said, and the room, rudely, did not quiet for his entrance; it simply breathed like it always did.

“Okay,” she said.

“I want to make the studio work,” he said. “But I don’t want to trade full-length for snippets. Not with this. Not with you.”

“Then don’t,” she said. “Keep the long version. We’ll guard it.”

He nodded. “Deal.” He held out his pinky finger like a five-year-old who had accidentally read a thesis on sincerity. She wrapped her finger around his and felt ridiculous and exactly right.

Finn chose that moment to announce, “The oven just winked.”

“It did not,” Mira said without looking up.

“It did in my heart,” Finn corrected.

They cleaned in that slow, after-midnight way that counts as a lullaby for tired countertops. Neon sighed off. The Brave Square kept its scuffs like souvenirs. Daphne stood with her palm on the new oven’s cool handle and listened to a building that was gradually learning to trust itself again.

At the door, Caius waited for her. “Same time tomorrow?” he asked.

“Earlier,” she said. “We have a vendor at eight. He will try to sell us six kinds of napkins. We will buy one. I will feel haunted by the other five.”

“I’ll bring coffee,” he said.

“Bring optimism,” she replied. “The kind that doesn’t need an audience.”

“I’ll steal some from your oven,” he said.

“It doesn’t have any to spare,” she said, then smiled. “But I do.”

They stepped outside. The air was cool and tasted like streetlights. Somewhere, a bus sighed. The city wasn’t asleep; it was simply blinking slowly. He walked her to the corner, and when they parted, it felt like setting something down gently instead of losing it.

Back inside, Daphne flipped the lock, turned once more to the room, and whispered to the Brave Square, “Tomorrow.”

The square did not answer. It didn’t need to. It was already saving a place.