Morning arrived with a sound of keys on glass—the café door unlocking, the day beginning again exactly where yesterday ended. Mira switched on the lights and watched the city stretch awake beyond the window. The air was sharp with salt and the faint sweetness of pastries cooling in the back kitchen. The cat, already stationed on the counter, yawned like a manager inspecting staff.  

“Don’t start,” she told it. “You haven’t paid rent.”  

The cat blinked, unimpressed, and knocked a spoon off the edge.  

At eight-fifteen, Aiden arrived, carrying his sketchbook and a paper bag that looked suspiciously heavy.  

“Morning tribute,” he said. “For the tyrant.”  

“Please tell me it’s not fish.”  

“Better—cream pastries. For both species.”  

The cat stretched, pretending it hadn’t heard. Mira poured two coffees.  

“I thought artists survived on air and regret,” she said.  

“I added sugar this week.”  

“That’s growth.”  

They shared a look that balanced between routine and curiosity. It had been a week since the “balcony treaty,” and the rhythm between them had turned into something quieter, less cautious. He worked upstairs most mornings, sometimes sketching at the café table near the window; she baked, wrote in her notebook, and pretended not to notice how easily her day now fit around his.  

By nine, the first customers arrived—students, tourists, a couple arguing in whispers. Mira moved through orders with practiced ease. Yet when she reached for the register, she froze. On the corner of the counter sat an envelope—plain, cream-colored, her name printed in neat block letters: **TO THE OBSERVER.**  

She glanced at Aiden. He shook his head. “Not me. I’d have drawn something dumb on it.”  

Mira opened it. Inside was a single printed page. No signature, no greeting, only one line at the top:  

> *You write as if no one is watching.*  

Below it, a full paragraph—her own words, copied directly from her secret blog post two nights ago. The one she’d titled *‘The Color of Almost.’*  

Her heart stumbled. Only five people in the city could possibly know the connection between *The Lovers’ Observation Diary* and Café Lumièra. None of them should have access to her drafts.  

Carlo approached with his usual grin. “Fan mail already? Read it out loud; we’ll applaud.”  

“Later,” she muttered, folding the letter. “Private order.”  

“Sounds suspiciously romantic.”  

“It’s not.”  

Aiden raised an eyebrow. “Maybe it is.”  

She glared at him. “Drink your coffee.”  

“Yes, ma’am.”  

By afternoon, the letter had nested in her apron pocket like a stone she couldn’t stop touching. Each time she reached for a towel, her fingers brushed the edge, and the words echoed: *You write as if no one is watching.*  

It wasn’t accusation—it sounded like recognition.  

When the rush ended, Aiden lingered at the counter sketching. The cat sprawled across his lap as if assigned to censorship.  

“Someone knows about my blog,” she said quietly.  

He looked up. “How?”  

“This morning. Anonymous envelope. No name, but they quoted something unpublished.”  

“Maybe a reader guessed?”  

“Word for word, Aiden.”  

He leaned back, thoughtful. “Could be the server hacked, or someone close.”  

“I didn’t tell anyone. Not even Carlo.”  

He smiled faintly. “I’m honored by the trust.”  

“It’s circumstantial.”  

“Still counts.”  

The bell over the door rang. Lucy entered, camera slung across her chest, her laughter already louder than the rain starting outside.  

“Mira! Carlo said you’re becoming a celebrity. I refuse to believe it until I take proof.”  

Mira forced a smile. “Hi, Lucy.”  

Aiden lifted a hand. “She’s mid-existential crisis, tread softly.”  

“Good, those photograph best.” Lucy pointed the lens. “Smile.”  

“Delete that.”  

“Too late.”  

Lucy ordered espresso, ignored the cat’s disdain, then leaned across the counter. “So, *Observer*—you finally ready to tell the world who you are?”  

Mira froze. “What did you just call me?”  

Lucy blinked. “That’s your blog name, isn’t it? Someone left flyers at the photography club. ‘Written by The Observer of Lumièra.’ Didn’t think it was a big secret.”  

Aiden set down his cup slowly. “Flyers?”  

Lucy shrugged. “Somebody promoting your site. Cute layout. Everyone’s obsessed with your post about the ‘man ten minutes late.’ Real poetic.”  

Heat climbed Mira’s neck. She hadn’t used names, but she didn’t have to. The description was unmistakable.  

“Who printed them?” she asked.  

“No clue. No signature, just a QR code.” Lucy’s grin softened. “Hey, if it helps, they’re saying nice things. You’re trending.”  

“Wonderful,” Mira said flatly.  

Lucy left soon after, leaving silence thick as steam. Aiden rubbed the back of his neck.  

“You okay?”  

“She thinks it’s cute.”  

“It’s exposure.”  

“It’s theft.”  

He hesitated. “I might help trace the source.”  

“How?”  

“I know a journalist who owes me a favor. He’s paranoid about privacy.”  

She looked up. “You’d do that?”  

“I don’t like when artists get stolen from.”  

“Bloggers aren’t artists.”  

“Then I’m overqualified.”  

Evening slipped in quietly, tinted amber through the windows. The café emptied except for the cat, who refused to clock out. Mira brewed herself tea she didn’t need. The anonymous page lay unfolded beside the register.  

Aiden returned after closing, jacket damp from rain. He carried two cups from the shop across the street. “Peace offering. Cinnamon lattes.”  

“You think sugar solves everything.”  

“It’s my religion.”  

He sat across from her. “I checked with my friend. The flyers came from an online print order—anonymous payment, same IP as your blog server.”  

She stared. “Meaning someone inside.”  

“Meaning someone who had your password.”  

“That’s me.”  

“Or someone who guessed it.”  

“I don’t use my birthday or the cat’s name.”  

“Good, because the cat’s password would be ‘No.’ ”  

She almost smiled. “Then who?”  

He hesitated. “Maybe the person who wrote the first letter.”  

“The anonymous one?”  

He nodded. “They quoted you. Maybe admiration turned into advertising.”  

“That’s not how admiration works.”  

“It is when people mistake attention for affection.”  

She folded her arms, feeling the weight of the café pressing close. “You think it’s personal?”  

“I think whoever it is knows you want to stay unseen.”  

She looked down at the note again. *You write as if no one is watching.*  

“Maybe they’re reminding me that someone always is.”  

“Then remind them you decide what they see.”  

Rain thickened, drumming the windows like impatient applause. The cat jumped onto the table, pushing the envelope toward Aiden. He opened it again, reread the single sentence, then tore the paper cleanly in half.  

“There,” he said. “Now it’s two half-truths.”  

Mira blinked. “You just destroyed evidence.”  

“Correction—art installation about trust.”  

“You’re impossible.”  

“Consistently.”  

They laughed—quiet, half exhausted, half relieved.  

Later, she walked him to the door. The rain had thinned to a silver mist.  

“Thank you,” she said.  

“For what?”  

“For staying.”  

“Habit,” he said, smiling. “And curiosity.”  

“Dangerous combination.”  

“The best kind.”  

When he left, she locked the door but didn’t move away from it. Through the glass, she saw him lift his face to the drizzle, his outline bending under the streetlight’s glow.  

She returned to the counter, opened her notebook, and wrote:  

> *Observation #46 — Being seen is a choice; being understood is a risk worth taking.*  

The cat settled beside the page as if approving the syntax. Mira touched its ear lightly.  

“Keep my secrets,” she whispered.  

It purred, eyes closing, the sound small but absolute, like the ending of a sentence that no one else had permission to write.