She pulled a small leather journal from her apron pocket—page 247, entry dated three years ago. February 17th: Ethiopian Yirgacheffe, natural process. Blueberry, jasmine, a ghost of bergamot. Served to a woman in a grey coat who cried when she drank it. She said it reminded her of her grandmother’s garden. I said nothing. I charged her $4.75.
Today, it tasted like regret and burnt sugar. erika moka
Her phone buzzed. A blocked number.
Erika looked at her journal. Page 12. January 3rd: Sumatran Mandheling, wet-hulled. Earth, tobacco, a broken engagement. Served to a man who laughed too loud. He left his wedding ring on the saucer. She pulled a small leather journal from her
At 4:47 the next morning, she brewed it anyway. The steam smelled of nothing. Not flowers, not earth, not smoke. Just absence. Served to a woman in a grey coat who cried when she drank it
And for the first time, Erika Moka broke her own rule.