The bell over the café door sounded like a coin in a glass jar—small, bright, and a little hopeful. I had been in the city three weeks and still felt like a tourist in my own life: new job, new bus route, new apartment with a window that faced the back of a billboard.

“Good morning,” the barista said, already turning the cup. “What’s your name?”
I told her. She wrote it slowly, like she was learning a new word she wanted to keep.

The first time, the latte was a treat. The second time, a reward for surviving a rainy commute. The third time, she remembered my name before I said it. “Same as yesterday?” She smiled like we’d been doing this for years.

Chairs scraped, steam hissed, the register chimed. Every morning the café felt like the city clearing its throat. People came in with pillow-crease faces and left with plans. I came in with a floating feeling and left a little heavier—in a good way—like the cup anchored me to the day.

One Tuesday she slid a small extra across the counter. “Try the new biscotti—on the house.” It tasted like almonds and a little like home.

Weeks later, when I finally learned the barista’s name, I wrote it on a sticky note at my desk. We were even now. Or maybe that’s not how belonging works. Maybe it’s not about keeping score, but about remembering—to offer a name when someone needs one, a smile when they’re new, a biscotti when the morning is cold.