Three years ago the neighborhood’s coffee master, Sami Usta, didn’t lift his shutters one morning, and nobody knew where he went. The corner shop stood empty. The paper in its window yellowed, but its sign stayed up.
Then someone rented it: you. The lease is for a single year. The key is under the doormat, and the whole neighborhood is watching.
Right across the street, a chain called Coffee King is opening a branch. Its manager, Kaan, used to be Sami’s apprentice. An old man who keeps stopping by the door looks at your cezve as if he knows exactly how it should be held. By the end of the year, who gets this corner won’t be decided by your till, but by the people who walk through your door.