Title: "A Cup of Silence"
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The café on 9th Street had a corner table by the window that nobody claimed, except on Sundays.
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Every Sunday, Emma sat there at 10:00 AM sharp with a paperback in hand and a cappuccino steaming beside her.
She never looked up unless the sun hit just right.
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Liam, the barista, noticed her first because she never spoke. She’d just smile, point at the menu, and scribble “Cappuccino,
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p1lease” on a napkin. Something about the way she wrote—soft, curved, unhurried—made it feel like music without sound.
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Week after week, he watched her. One Sunday, she left her book behind. He picked it up and found a note tucked between the pages:
"You make the best cappuccino in the world. Thank you for every silent Sunday."
— E.
He held onto that note like it was something precious.
The next Sunday, she didn’t come.
Nor the next.
Or the one after that.
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A month passed before she returned, this time with a tiny notebook in her hand. She walked straight to the counter and handed it to Liam.
Inside, it said:
