The train station café was never truly busy, but it was never empty either. Travelers drifted in and out carrying backpacks, suitcases, and tired expressions that all looked strangely similar. Daniel worked the evening shift there five days a week, memorizing orders before customers even reached the counter. An elderly man always ordered black tea at exactly 7:15, while a university student spent hours near the window pretending to study while watching trains leave the city. One rainy evening, the power briefly went out across the station, leaving the café wrapped in darkness except for the emergency lights glowing faint red along the walls. Instead of complaining, people became unusually quiet. A little girl started humming softly, and someone near the back joined in. Soon a few strangers were laughing, talking, and sharing stories while waiting for the electricity to return. For nearly twenty minutes, nobody stared at their phones or rushed toward departure boards. When the lights finally flickered back on, the moment disappeared almost instantly. Conversations ended, bags were lifted, and passengers returned to their schedules. Yet as Daniel wiped down the counter later that night, the café somehow felt warmer than before, as though the station had briefly remembered how human people could be.