The Kerfufflers

South Terrace shivered in the early August dark, as it always did in winter. A gentle breeze tugged at the leaves of the eucalyptus trees and rattled some left behind bottles near Gold Street, but the little coffee shop at the corner — wedged between still sleeping households — was already glowing.

By 5.30 sharp, the lights hummed warm and the two women serving behind the counter, young and unreasonably awake, had begun their sacred choreography: grind, pour, smile. One by one, they welcomed the Kerfufflers — those unassuming souls of before dawn who seemed to emerge from nowhere and everywhere, heads bowed, hands curled around their refillables, and their phones, dog leads or old paperbacks.

Each server knew their Kerfuffler’s cup. Each knew their name. No one asked for a menu. There were nods, slight smiles, a mumbled “Morning,” then silence as the flat whites and long blacks were placed before them like offerings.

They were not friends, these co-orderers. Not quite. But they had formed something older than friendship: a fellowship of habit. Electricians, retired academics and sea captains, young poets, busy professionals already late for work, plumbers with philosophical streaks, nurses getting ready for the day’s challenges — each drawn by the light, the coffee, and the comfort of wordless communion.

By 6 it grew. A babble, not a roar. A reverent noise, like tide over shells. By 10.30 it was a jubilant kerfuffle. Babies squealed, dogs barked, someone laughed too loudly. But some of the the early Kerfuffle folk still sat, observant, honouring the hush of beginnings beneath the bustle of what came after.

No one spoke of it. That would ruin it.

But if you stood by the door at 5.31 and breathed it all in — steam and dark and roasted bean — you’d feel it.

That tender hush. That stitched-together knowing. That heartbeat of Freo before it wakes.