The plaza breathed slower today.
Not quiet—just hushed. Like a room waiting for a string to be plucked.
Jun arrived as usual.
Same kettle. Same cloth. Same jar lineup—though the fourth sat a little closer now.
He didn't adjust it.
Didn't announce its presence.
But its weight felt more known.
The wind curled around the bench line.
Papers shifted.
Vendors murmured.
But the space around his cart—held.
A man approached.
Young. Hoodie up. Phone in hand, but not looking at it.
He stopped five paces from the cart.
Didn't order.
Didn't move.
Just said—
"You're that guy, right? The slow pour one."
Jun didn't nod.
He placed the dripper.
Warmed the kettle.
Measured the second jar, not the fourth.
Steam rose before a name did.
The man scratched his head.
"I saw a video last month. My brother sent it. He doesn't even drink coffee—said it 'calmed his scroll.' I didn't believe it was real."
Jun let the bloom rise.
He didn't ask about the video.
