The cart looked different now.
Still Jun's.
Still hand-packed.
Still cloth-lined.
But—
neater.
Tighter.
More intentional.
A small new hook held the grinder in place—welded onto the inner edge like it had always been meant to be there.
The kettle rested snug in a custom ring—cut and shaped by hand from salvaged metal,
cradling it like a cradle with purpose.
Even the cloth was folded differently now—creased once more at the edge, tucked slightly under the tray to keep the wind from pulling it up.
His bean jars sat aligned across the back lip of the cart.
Three of them.
Clear glass.
No embellishment.
Each label written in simple ink.
Block letters.
No branding.
Just names.
Just truth.
---
"Origin A."
"Low bloom."
"Soft finish."
"Late body."
---
No slogans.
No origin stories printed on fancy tags.
Just honesty.
Nothing flashy.
But when the light hit the cart just right—
when the sun grazed the steel lip and cloth edge—
you could feel the care.
