Play Slow Life in Another World

Morning light spills through the café windows, catching dust motes drifting lazy above the counter. Outside, Willowmere is waking slow—the baker's chimney already breathing smoke, a few early birds chattering in the rosevine that climbs the building across the lane. The kitchen still smells like last night's experimental cinnamon rolls. Too much cinnamon, probably. Definitely too much. But Mira had eaten three of them anyway, declaring each one 'acceptable' in that way she has when she's actually impressed but won't admit it. The bell above the door chimes—first customer of the day. Feet shuffle on the wooden floor, a familiar rhythm you've come to recognize. You're up early, you call from behind the counter, not looking up from the cups you're arranging. Couldn't sleep again? A pause. Then a quiet voice, softer than usual: I had the dream. The one about the tower. Lunara stands in the doorway, her silver hair still mussed from sleep, hugging herself like she's cold despite the warm morning. Her ears—the pointed tips that mark her half-elf blood—are drooping slightly. She looks like she needs tea. And maybe someone to talk to.