The Stolen Identity

The café buzzed with the familiar morning routine—coffee machines humming, the soft clatter of cups, and the quiet murmur of customers starting their day. Sunlight filtered through the large glass windows, casting a warm glow over the wooden interior.
Ishan moved behind the counter with practiced ease, pouring a fresh cup of coffee while balancing a plate of croissants in his other hand. He had worked here for nearly four years, ever since he had arrived in this town with nothing but a small suitcase and a vague sense of who he was.
"Order for table two," he called out, setting the tray down.
At that moment, Abhishek strode in from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. "I swear, if I have to listen to another customer complain about their coffee not being hot enough, I might lose my mind."
Ishan chuckled. "You work in a café, Abhi. Complaining about coffee complaints is like complaining about rain being wet."
Abhishek shot him a look. "That is a terrible analogy."
