p r o l o g u e .

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Falling leaves.  One by one, the leaves fell.  Red.  Orange.  Yellow.  Every color in-between.  With every passing moment, the huge maple tree that canopied the café’s storefront came closer and closer to drifting away into its annual slumber; awaiting the time when warmth returned to the air once again.

            It had been raining all morning but now the sun shone, its rays bouncing off windows, passing cars, a strolling pedestrian’s phone screen and puddles on the cobblestone sidewalk.

            One particularly bright red leaf had somehow gotten itself stuck in a broken corner of the stones--

            “Wendy!” cried a stern man’s voice.

            The young barista jumped, nearing dropping the cup she had been holding in her hands (she had been “drying” the cup with a towel for the past five minutes or so). Blinking, she glanced at her displeased manager.

            “Sir?” she said, rather cluelessly.

            “If you can’t control your daydreaming, you’ll be fired.”  he said under his breath so that none of the café patrons would hear.  “Such deep contemplation has its rightful time and place--“

            “I’m sorry, sir, but you’ve been telling me that for the past four years.”  she said, bowing her head respectfully and turning away.  “We both know that I won’t be fired for...that.”  She sat the over-dried cappuccino cup on the counter with the others.

            The manager sighed but made no comment to her accusation.  “We just got a call-in for two white mochas, one Americano, and one house with room for cream and sugar.  Get to work.”

            “Yes, sir.”  she said obediently.  She proceeded to clean the machine equipment.

            The Roost was arguably downtown’s best coffee shop and teahouse; located a little on the outer side of the artsy center of the city.  If not the best, it was certainly one of the most popular, especially amongst the stay-in sort of crowd.  Students from the nearby university, writers, avid YouTube addicts who also happened to have fine taste in coffee.  Tourists from just about everywhere made it a point to stop by in the midst of their travels.  Adorned in brick and cozy industrial charm (the space used to be an alleyway between buildings before it was enclosed to create the narrow, two-level café) with plenty of owl motifs, it was the perfect place to relax and recharge with a great beverage. 

            The Roost’s owner and head barista was Mr. Cho, a certain wealthy foreigner who was once a rather famous musician whose heart was apparently elsewhere.

            Wendy thought Mr. Cho embodied the spirit of autumn somehow, only without the cheerily warm sunshine that held onto summer.  His demeanor was like late autumn; exceptionally polite and vigorously sophisticated, though tempered by the chill of the coming winter.

            He was a pleasant enough person.

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Coffee.  Medium-dark, smooth, slightly sweet and quite nutty in flavor.  The Roost’s own house blend.  Wendy expertly poured the hot coffee