Our café isn’t fancy — no polished marble, no designer chairs. Just mismatched furniture, the smell of cinnamon and warm bread, and a wall covered in handwritten notes from customers who feel like family. My dad built it years ago with his own hands, believing that a place filled with love would never run out of people. After he passed, my mom and I kept it going, pouring every bit of our hearts into it. Most days feel like a hug, filled with the kind of small moments that make life meaningful. But one afternoon, the door opened to something...
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