Marina poured the last cup from her French press and set it on the counter between the sugar and the napkins. The coffee shop wasn't hers. She worked here three days a week, pulling espresso shots and wiping tables, but the beans she roasted at home in her kitchen. Small batches. Just enough to bring in on Thursdays and share with whoever asked. She watched the steam rise from the cup and thought about windows facing the water. A man in a rain jacket reached for the cup. He took a sip, then another. His eyes widened. "This is incredible," he said. "Best roast on the coast, easy." He set the cup down and looked at her. "Why aren't you selling this?" Marina felt something shift in her chest. She thought about the spot she visited every Sunday morning, where the waterfall dropped into the inlet and the mist hung over the rocks. She could see the building there, smell the beans roasting before anyone even opened the door. But that vision lived only in her head. Here, she had a tiny kitchen and a borrowed corner of someone else's counter. She reached under the register and pulled out the old coffee pot she'd found at a yard sale last spring. Turquoise enamel, chipped and worn, with a wooden handle. She filled it with what was left in the French press and handed it to him. "Take this," she said. "If you mean what you said, come back next week and tell me what you'd pay for a bag." The man held the pot like it was fragile. He nodded. Marina watched him leave, and for the first time in months, the roastery felt like something more than a dream.