The little coffee shop on the corner of Willow Street was unusually quiet that afternoon. The usual chatter of students and office workers was muted, replaced by the low hum of soft jazz coming from the speakers overhead. The air smelled faintly of roasted beans and warm vanilla, a scent that usually comforted Maya. But today, even the smell of fresh coffee couldn’t calm the restless beat of her heart.

She sat at a table tucked into the far corner, away from the front windows. Her hands were wrapped tightly around a warm mug of cappuccino, as if she could absorb steadiness from its heat. She had arrived early, partly...