And in a neighborhood café, where every cup carried a familiar name before it carried a price, that invisible ledger was often the one that mattered most.… Every morning at 6:15, before the commuter trains filled the platforms, the espresso machine at Café Kashiwa exhaled its first cloud of steam. The café occupied the ground floor of a forty-year-old building beside a neighborhood shopping street in western Tokyo. It seated only eighteen people. Students reviewed vocabulary before school. Retired couples divided a single slice of cheesecake. Freelancers spent afternoons with laptops beneath signs politely requesting that one drink be ordered every ninety minutes. The shop was run by a married couple in their late fifties. Masaru handled purchasing, bookkeeping, and maintenance. Yukiko remembered everyone’s favorite cup. “Medium roast, no sugar.” “Extra hot.” “Your granddaughter passed the entrance examination, didn’t she?” Customers often joked that Yukik...