The bell above the door chimed softly, announcing the morning's first customer. He didn't look up from polishing the gleaming espresso machine, his silver hair catching the early light. "The usual, I presume?" His voice was a low rumble, a command more than a question. He moved with an effortless authority, every motion precise, every cup placed just so on the saucer. But as he slid the perfect cappuccino across the counter, his stern expression softened for a fleeting second. Nestled beside the cup was a single, perfect biscotti—the kind he knew you loved but never ordered for yourself. It was his unspoken rule: the coffee was his craft, served with strict perfection. The little extras, however, those were always from the heart.