The grinder screamed louder than conversation.
It wasn’t a cute little whir, either, the kind that sounds like morning. It was a full-throated metal shriek that drowned out half the words in Seattle Bruise, the downtown café that smelled like espresso, damp coats, and people trying to outrun Monday.
Daniel Brooks wiped down table seven for the second time even though it was already clean. It wasn’t about the table. It was about keeping his hands busy while his mind tried to yank him back into memories he didn’t want to touch before noon.
Across the room, his daughter sat on a stool by the window, little legs swinging, backpack hugged tight to her chest. Sophie was seven now. She was born deaf, but you wouldn’t know it from the way she laughed with her whole body. Her laughter didn’t need sound to feel loud. It bounced off her shoulders, danced in her eyes, made strangers smile even when they didn’t understand why.
Daniel watched her for a second and felt that familiar pinch of gratitude and panic, braided together like rope.
He signed to her without thinking, fast and casual the way they always did when the world got busy.
You okay? His hands asked.
Sophie flashed him a grin and signed back.
Hungry. Also bored. Also your boss is mean.
Daniel’s mouth twitched. Tyler wasn’t his boss, but Tyler sure acted like anyone who worked mornings owed him an apology for existing.
Daniel lifted his eyebrows and signed.
Five minutes. Then school. Deal?
Sophie pretended to consider it like she was negotiating a billion-dollar contract. Then she nodded dramatically.
Deal. But I want the chocolate muffin.
Daniel pointed at her like, you’re pushing it, and she giggled.
The bell over the door jingled. A gust of cold rain-air pushed into the café with whoever walked in, bringing the smell of wet asphalt and umbrellas dripping defeat.
Daniel looked up.
A blonde woman in a red coat stepped inside like she belonged in a different world. Not just “expensive coat” different. Composed. Tall. The kind of person who knew where she was going even when she didn’t.
Her hair was pinned neatly back, but the rain had kissed a few strands loose near her temple. She didn’t look annoyed. She looked… ready. Like she’d already rehearsed whatever this moment might demand from her.
She joined the short line at the counter. Tyler was working the register, half-listening to a guy complaining about oat milk like it was a political stance.
When it was the woman’s turn, she stepped forward and didn’t speak.
Her hands moved instead.
Not random. Not fidgeting. Careful gestures, practiced and precise.
Tyler blinked at her like his brain had hit a loading screen.
She tried again, slower.
Tyler’s lips curled into a smirk.
“I don’t know what you’re doing,” he said, voice loud enough for the people waiting behind her to hear, “but if you can’t talk, maybe you shouldn’t order.”
A couple of customers chuckled. Not because it was funny, but because cruelty is contagious when nobody wants to be the one to stop it.
The woman’s face didn’t change. But Daniel saw something flicker behind her eyes. Not surprise. Not anger, even.
Resignation.
Like this wasn’t the first time.
Like it wouldn’t be the last.
Daniel’s chest tightened.
He’d seen that look before.
He’d worn it.
He’d carried it into courtrooms and HR offices and bank meetings where people looked through him as if grief made him inconvenient. He’d held it in his hands at night when Sophie was asleep and the apartment felt too quiet, too thin, too temporary.
Sophie tugged his sleeve from across the room, her face serious now. She signed quickly.
She’s like me, Dad.
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