The bell over the café door did its usual thing—just a soft jingle, nothing wild. More like, "Hey, someone actually showed up," not "Alert, drama incoming." Kinda like those wind chimes your grandma hangs on her porch, except less annoying.
Inside Maple Bean, the sun was straight-up showing off. I mean, it was flooding through the big windows, making the old wood floors look like they'd been dunked in liquid gold or honey or whatever. And the smell? Unreal. Fresh muffins, roasting coffee, vanilla steam wafting everywhere like some ghost with a sweet tooth.
Sage Park was behind the counter in her cinnamon-toast-colored apron, hair in this messy bun that had clearly lost the will to fight. She's seventeen, pencil stuck behind her ear, wiping down a counter that honestly couldn't get any cleaner unless you took a flamethrower to it. Mornings here were slow, gentle, almost sleepy. She was all about it.
Her eyes wandered to the tip jar—a squat little glass thing, with a mini chalkboard perched next to it. Her own handwriting, all loopy and extra for no reason:
Tip Question of the Day:
"If you could have one superpower, what would it be?"
People were already scribbling answers on scraps:
"Flying. Traffic is the actual devil."
"Talking to animals. My cat is plotting something, I know it."
"Invisibility. For those days I spill coffee on myself and want to disappear."
Sage grinned at that last one.
This wasn't just a gig for her. The café was her place. The regulars? Kinda like extras in her own sitcom, the kind with inside jokes and weird rituals. Like the dude who hums (loud, but somehow doesn't suck), or the kid who'd start a riot if she messed up the marshmallow count. And these Tip Jar Questions? Her favorite thing, no contest.
The bell jingled again. Speak of the devil—here he comes.
Yeah, him.
He'd started popping in, what, three, four weeks back? Always after the morning madness but before the lunch chaos. Looked about her age, maybe a year older. Always in that dark green hoodie, shoes that had seen some serious miles.
He shuffled up, eyes flicking from the tip jar to the menu, then back.
"Hey," Sage said, trying for casual but maybe a little too excited.
"Hi," he mumbled, eyes not quite making it to hers. "Uh… medium hot chocolate. Extra cinnamon, please."
She nodded, tapping it in. "Name for the cup?"
He paused.
"Elliot."
"Alright, Elliot. One cinnamon-bomb hot chocolate coming up."
He managed a half-smile. Sage got to work—milk steaming, chocolate melting. She sneaked another look. No phone. No book. Just him, staring at the tip jar like it might reveal the meaning of life.
She brought him his drink; he handed over a five, tossed his change in the jar—and then something folded.
Wait. That wasn't cash. Paper, folded up.
He gave her a tiny nod, grabbed his drink, and retreated to his usual window seat like he'd paid rent on it.
Sage tried to play it cool, but as soon as he was out of range, curiosity got her. She fished the paper out of the jar.
It said:
"Teleportation. So I can visit every bookstore in the world before dinner.
—E"
Okay, her heart did a full-on cartwheel.
He didn't just answer the question. He answered it.
She watched him for a second—Elliot, sipping his hot chocolate, nose in a paperback that looked like it'd survived a hurricane. Didn't even glance her way.
Sage grabbed a new scrap, scribbled something quick, folded it, and wrote "For E." on top. Slipped it right into the jar.
Her note:
"Solid pick. Can I tag along if I swear not to buy out every shelf?"
Elliot left without saying a word, but as he passed the counter, he dropped another something in the jar.
Alright, game on.
Chapter 1: A Question by the Tip Jar (Part 2)
The bell over the door let out its usual sad excuse for a ding—honestly, it sounded like a dying robot frog, but whatever, it worked. Hear that noise and suddenly, boom, you're smack in the middle of some small-town sitcom, surrounded by burnt coffee fumes and enough cinnamon roll sugar to rot your teeth on contact. Sage wiped her hands on her apron, which, by the way, looked like a flour bomb had gone off (no surprises there), and gave the tip jar a glance. Jackpot. Coins, wads of bills, and—yep—another one of those origami fortune-teller things that the locals kept tossing in, like it was their own grown-up confessional.
She fished out the latest note, praying she didn't tip the whole jar over and send change skittering across the sticky tiles. Same weird curly handwriting as last time. Of course. She couldn't help but smirk.
"Deal. But only if you promise to help me solve the mystery of the missing muffins.
—E"
Sage snorted. Missing muffins? Oh, please. What's next, a hardboiled detective staking out the pastry case?
She eyed the muffin tray near the register. Two sad, lonely blueberry muffins remained, looking like they survived a zombie apocalypse. Wait—was this a joke, or was someone actually swiping baked goods? Or, honestly, was this just the regular "let's mess with Sage while she's on the crack-of-dawn shift" game?
Right on cue, Aunt Marlene's voice blasted from the kitchen: "Sage! More muffins, please. We're running low!"
Naturally. The plot thickens.
She hustled over, dropped a fresh tray on the counter, and—wait, hang on. Was that a shadow ducking past the front window? Sage looked up, half-expecting to spot a muffin thief in a balaclava, but nah, just Elliot. Again.
This guy. Never buys squat, just swoops in, drops a note in the jar, flashes that smug, criminally cute grin (it should be illegal, honestly), and then—poof—he's gone. Like he's undercover for the Pastry Police or something.
Obviously, she snatched the note and opened it up:
"Step one of the muffin mystery: Who's been sneaking into the café early?
I promise it's not me. —E"
She cracked up, right there behind the counter, probably looked like she'd lost it. Muffin mystery? Okay, game on.
She ripped off a chunk of register tape and scrawled:
"Suspicious… I'm thinking muffin ninja. Your move, Detective E."
Slipped it back in the jar, all sneaky-like, then peeked outside. Elliot was already halfway down Maple, but he caught her eye, gave this dorky little wave, and—ugh—her heart did this ridiculous backflip. Seriously, Sage? Get a grip.
So yeah, this was definitely the kickoff to something new. Secret muffin codes, dumb jokes, and that fluttery, electric feeling that only shows up at the Maple Bean when life decides to get cute and mess with your plans..
Chapter 1: A Question by the Tip Jar (Part 3)
Man, that afternoon light just sprawled all over the café floor, turning everything gold and stretchy. Sage leaned back for a sec behind the counter, letting the espresso machine's steady hum settle her nerves. Honestly, it sounded a bit like a sleepy heartbeat—way better than any meditation app, if you ask me.
Her eyes flicked over to the tip jar. It wasn't just a jar anymore; it turned into this unofficial mailbox, you know? People dropped in notes and random stories, like sending messages in bottles, except with more caffeine involved.
Door chimes jingled. Not Elliot this round—nope, just this tiny human with pigtails and eyes the size of full moons. She bounced right up, no hesitation.
"Hi!" she chirped. "Can I have a strawberry smoothie, please? And um, can I answer your question?"
Sage couldn't help but smile. "Heck yeah! Lay it on me."
The kid did a dramatic thinking pose, finger glued to her chin. "Hmm… If I could have a superpower, I'd talk to animals. Then I'd finally figure out why my dog keeps making my shoes disappear!"
Sage cracked up. "Honestly, same. That's genius. I'm writing that down."
She scribbled out the answer, folded it up, and popped it into the jar with the others.
Then, the kid's mom called from the door, and just like that, she was gone—skipping away, probably off to interrogate her dog.
Sage glanced at the jar again. Man, it was filling up fast. Every note, a tiny peek into someone's brain or secret wish.
Wait—there was a new one poking out at the top. She wriggled it free, careful like it might bite.
From Elliot, of course:
"Step two of the muffin mystery: The muffin ninja leaves a crumb trail.
I think they like blueberry best.
—E"
Sage couldn't help grinning. The muffin mystery was officially ridiculous now, but she was all in. This was their thing.
She tucked the note away in her pocket, muttering, "Alright, Detective E, let's see where this crumb trail goes."
Chapter 1: A Question by the Tip Jar (Part 4)
Maple Bean Café was just about done for the night, you know that weird in-between hour when the sun's basically saying, "Alright, I'm out," and everything glows tangerine? Sage was stacking chairs, wiping tables, kinda zoning out—her mind kept bouncing back to the tip jar and those goofy notes.
She fished out the one Elliot left earlier, all about the "muffin ninja." God, the guy could turn anything into a mini-adventure. Who does that? She couldn't help grinning.
Then—bam—something caught her eye near the counter: a crumb trail. Yep, legit. Like, actual tiny blueberry muffin bits making a beeline for the back door. You really can't make this stuff up.
So Sage, half curious, half trying not to laugh, tiptoed along the crumbs. They ended at this slim crack in the door, like a cartoon clue.
And then? There's this rustle from outside. Not creepy, just... sneaky. Sage squinted through the crack, and there it was—a scruffy grey cat with these ridiculous, traffic-light green eyes, chomping on a crumb like it just pulled off the heist of the century.
"Well, well, little muffin ninja," she whispered, trying not to snort.
She scooped up the cat, all gentle, and brought it inside. Right on cue, the bell above the door gave a lame little jingle—Elliot walked in.
He looked at Sage—well, actually, at the cat, like he'd just spotted his favorite plot twist. "That's the muffin ninja!" He actually grinned.
Sage just nodded. "Guess the mystery's cracked."
Elliot chuckled. "Appreciate ya, Detective E."
Sage shot him a wink. "Anytime, partner."
The cat started purring, like it owned the place, and for that second—seriously—the café felt like the warmest, laziest corner of the universe.