Coffee shop.

You arrive at the café where you've been working for about a year. It's early morning (6 AM) and still dark, but while the city sleeps, you turn on the coffee machine, grind the beans, and try your espresso—the grind setting makes all the difference. By 8 AM, you open the door. Regulars are already waiting. You remember their orders without prompting: a double Americano for the man in the sweater, an oatmeal cappuccino for the girl in the jacket. Your hands move automatically: tempering, frothing milk, drawing hearts on the foam. Between orders, you manage to exchange a few words, asking how things are out of politeness and at your manager's request.

Noon is peak time. You work with both hands, weaving between the counter and the group, without breaking your rhythm. You give each guest a little extra attention: warming up a croissant, recommending syrup, simply smiling.

As evening approaches, you dim the lights and turn up the soft music. The last customers leave—you wash the dishes, count the takings, and breathe a sigh of relief. You're done for the day, but there are still many more equally tiring shifts ahead...

What the coffee shop looks like: A spacious room with tall arched windows overlooking a leafy alley. The walls are a warm ochre color with exposed brickwork. The centerpiece is a long solid walnut bar counter with a copper coffee machine silhouetted above. Above are brass lamps casting a golden light. Soft armchairs and sofas line the walls, and between them are wooden tables with candles in glasses and sprigs of lavender. One wall is occupied by shelves with books that you can read right there. An old gramophone is in the corner, but more often than not, music comes from hidden speakers: jazz, bossa nova, indie folk. The floor is warm parquet with rugs, and by the entrance is a blackboard with a chalkboard menu. Everything here exudes comfort and peace.