Ellen’s cappuccino machine sputtered a warning hiss, the kind it gave before surrendering to rust or resignation. She ignored it, as always, pressing the steam wand like the outcome still depended on faith.

Outside the café window, Main Street blinked awake with joggers in their sweat suits, dog-walkers dressed in winter clothing, and a man whose breath rose to the sky was stapling flyers about a missing cat named Buttons. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of burnt espresso and second chances.

Her first customer was Henry. Same plaid shirt, same kind smile. He stopped coming last winter, when she told him she couldn’t keep pretending her marriage was fine. Now he stood at the counter, nodding at the cup in her hand.

“Still no sugar?” she asked.

“Still no sugar,” he said. Then, a beat later, “Still no ring?”

Ellen slid the cappuccino across the counter. “Guess we both keep cutting back.”

The machine gave one last sigh. Foam spilled unevenly, a tiny heart forming without her trying.

Henry took the cup and lingered by the door. “See you next year, maybe?”

She watched the snow starting to fall outside the café. “Only if you still like cappuccino.”