She just needed to stop reading and start pulling.

She tamped with the weight of a handshake, not a fist. Locked the portafilter. Pressed the button.

The PDF was open on the counter, water-spotted and absurd. It couldn't teach her the sound of the perfect grind, but it had a note in the margins: "Listen for the crackle to become a hiss. That’s the sweet spot."

She had never actually pulled a shot herself. Not a real one. She was the owner, the accountant, the woman who hugged regulars and remembered that the woman in the red coat took oat milk with a whisper of honey. But the machine—the beautiful, terrifying, three-group La Marzocco—had always been someone else’s religion.

At 5:47 AM, before anyone arrived, she decided to learn.