I woke earlier than I had in years. Outside, the city began to stir—vendors setting up carts, bikes rumbling awake, and the river glittering under soft golden light. I sipped a bitter cup of instant coffee and opened a blank notebook I’d bought the night before.

The first page was empty. Like my life now. A clean slate.

I had always dreamed of owning something small. Simple. Mine. A little café, perhaps. Or a quiet flower shop. Something with warm lights and soft music. When my husband and I were young, I told him I wanted to open a teahouse by the river. He laughed and said, “Only if you promise to bake.”

So that was it. I would use the money to open a tea house.

But not just any tea house.