Two engineers.
Thirty years of noise.
One quiet room.

Thirty years between us in engineering. Open-plan floors, standing meetings, notifications stacked like plates. We were good at it. It was loud.

The thing about noise is that you stop hearing it. You only notice when it stops.

Reşitpaşa is a neighbourhood, not a destination. There is a school up the road and a stock exchange down it, and in between there is a street where people actually live.

We took a room on the ground floor. Glass at the front, so the street comes in. Steel at the bar, because that part has to be exact. Wood everywhere else, because the rest of it has to be warm.

Engineering did leave us with one useful habit: we measure things. Dose to the tenth of a gram, water to the degree, time to the second. The spec sheet on the bag is not decoration — it is what we actually recorded.

None of that is your problem. You order a flat white and it arrives. The precision is behind the counter, where it belongs.