The sun spills across the narrow table in a modest triangle of gold, illuminating a glint on the rim of my demitasse. I sit still, my fingers resting lightly on the porcelain, letting the heat soak into my palm. Across the square, an elderly man in a houndstooth coat walks a terrier with the kind of leisurely dignity only the retired or unbothered seem to command. His steps are slow but certainly deliberate. There is grace in that. Around me, the familiar murmur of a Tuesday afternoon in central London. Horns at a low grumble, French chatter drifting from the