Max's alarm rang at **4:45 AM** sharp.
He didn't snooze it. He never snoozed it.
Groggy, stiff, and with a bit of soreness still hanging in his shoulders, he sat up slowly on the worn-out couch in the back room of *The Silver Spoon*. It wasn't meant to be a bedroom, but for now, it was home.
A deep breath.
A long exhale.
Then movement.
---
The first thing he did was open the back door and check the delivery boxes he had arranged with a few local suppliers.
His new *routine* was starting to take shape.
**6 farm eggs cartons** – from the small farm just outside the city
**Fresh sourdough loaves** – artisan-baked, slightly more expensive
**Salted and unsalted butter** – for different styles of cooking
**Mixed cheese pack** – cheddar, gouda, and mozzarella
**Green herbs** – basil, chives, parsley
**Cured bacon** – slightly smoked, thick cut
**Local roasted coffee beans** – medium-dark roast
He carried them inside one by one, storing everything carefully. The fridge was nearly full now. And it felt good to see it that way.
By **5:30 AM**, Max had prepped the ingredients.
Chopping herbs. Cracking eggs. Slicing bread into uniform cuts.
Every movement was precise. Every tool had its place.
He had cleaned the counters last night, and yet, he wiped them again. Twice.
There was something sacred about the stillness of the kitchen before the rush. Just him, his ingredients, and the quiet promise of a day waiting to unfold.
---
At **6:00 AM**, he brewed the first pot of coffee and set two to-go cups by the window shelf. Just in case.
He unlocked the front door at **6:30**, exactly.
The lights flicked on, the OPEN sign lit up, and the warm smell of butter and roasted coffee began to creep into the street.
By **6:45**, the first customer walked in.
---
The morning rush was steady now. Not overwhelming—but definitely growing.
Some customers came alone. Some in small groups. One man brought his teenage son and insisted, "This is the best damn toast you'll ever eat."
Another woman ordered her second deluxe grilled cheese in two days and asked, "Do you *sell* this bread? I need it at home."
By **9:00 AM**, every table was taken.
The line wasn't out the door—but it reached the wall by the entrance, and that was enough to keep Max fully occupied.
He didn't panic anymore.
He moved with clarity, hands confident, body in sync with the tools.
Still, he noticed everything.
How one woman winced at her toast being too dark—he adjusted the timing by 5 seconds the next time.
How the egg yolk needed just a touch more salt—he measured with fingertips instead of spoons.
He kept a small notebook open near the counter.
Every break between orders, he wrote short notes:
> – "Herbs need drying longer – retain flavor"
> – "Cheese blend = balance sharp/smooth (test 60/40 ratio)"
> – "More mugs? Some customers stay long – not enough turnover"
---
At **10:15 AM**, the morning rush slowed.
Max took a deep breath. Poured himself a half cup of coffee. Leaned back on the counter.
His shirt was damp with sweat.
His fingers slightly tingled from overuse.
But he felt… proud.
And then the bell rang again.
---
Emily walked in—again in jeans and a light blouse, holding a folder under her arm. Her hair was tied in a low ponytail this time. She looked like she'd been up just as early as he had.
"Hey," she said simply.
Max raised an eyebrow. "Breakfast again?"
"That, and maybe… an idea."
She walked toward the counter and placed the folder down.
"I noticed yesterday—your layout's functional, but not welcoming. The space has charm, but the flow's off. I sketched a few ideas last night. Just concepts. Nothing fancy."
He didn't say anything.
She hesitated. "You don't have to use them, obviously. I just—thought you might want a second opinion."
Max looked at the folder, then up at her.
"You stayed up doing this?"
"I wasn't tired."
He opened it.
Simple pencil sketches. Notes on the seating arrangement. Suggestions like:
> "Add a plant by the window – warmth + depth"
> "Subtle lighting over counter – invites evening crowd"
> "Menu board – needs cleaner font, maybe chalk on slate"
Not pushy. Not grand. Just… thoughtful.
---
"…Thanks," Max said quietly. "These are good."
"I could help paint if you want."
He looked at her with the same slight smile from yesterday.
"Still for free?"
Emily shrugged. "Maybe one deluxe grilled cheese."
He laughed.
---
She didn't stay long. Said she had work.
But her presence lingered long after she left.
---
At noon, Max had made a decision.
He pulled out his phone and called a local print shop to ask about a new chalkboard sign.
Then looked online for a small secondhand lamp he could install over the counter.
Small steps.
But necessary ones.
---
That evening, when the rush had ended and the door was locked, Max cleaned the counters like always. Scrubbed the pans. Took inventory.
Then sat down at his usual seat with the notebook in front of him.
Today's numbers:
\
\
\
\
\
\
He hovered his finger over the button.
Then clicked it.
The roulette appeared.
Soft glow. Whirling icons.
Dishes. Tools. Nothing exotic. All real.
It spun.
Tick—tick—tick—
**\
A perfect pairing with grilled cheese—simple, classic, and comforting.
Max knew exactly where it belonged on the menu.
---
Tomorrow, he'd test it.
And maybe… just maybe… add it to the menu.
Because *The Silver Spoon* wasn't just a breakfast place anymore.
It was becoming a dream again.
One he could touch.
---