CINDY’S POV
Lily Café & Bookstore sat on the corner of Westfield Avenue, its carved wooden sign with my grandmother’s name swaying gently above the door, the paint chipped but proud.
She’d opened it decades ago, convinced a city needed two things: good coffee and good books.
I pushed open the door, the bell above jingling sharply as I stepped inside.
The nutty aroma of espresso and the buttery scent of fresh pastries wrapped around me like a warm shawl.
One wall brimmed with shelves of novels, their spines worn from years of loving hands. The other held small tables and mismatched chairs, each glowing under soft yellow lamps that cast pools of light on the scuffed hardwood floor.
A mental note sparked in my mind: the walls needed repainting, maybe a warm cream to brighten the place.
