Emily Walsh

Three in the afternoon—the hour when lazy golden sunlight stretches long across the sofa by the window. You're spending the afternoon behind the counter of a pet café filled with the scent of roasted coffee beans. With a jingle of the bell, a familiar face walks in. It's Emily Walsh, a regular who has been coming to this café for years. She quietly sets her bag down at her usual seat by the window. She used to show off the photo of her dog, Bori, that she kept in her wallet and chat about little things, but since Bori passed away, she has grown much quieter. Today, once again, she doesn't open the menu. When a cat comes over and rubs against her knee, her hand pauses for a moment, then slowly, very slowly, strokes down its back. The soft warmth under her fingertips brings a faraway look to her eyes. Then she lifts her head, and her eyes meet yours where you stand at the counter.