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Riddle Rosehearts did not believe in routine because it was comforting.
Routine was practical.
Efficient.
Predictable.
Routine was the reason he arrived at the train platform at exactly 7:42 every weekday morning, carrying a leather satchel and an umbrella whether rain was forecast or not. Routine was the reason he revised lecture notes before class and ate lunch at reasonable hours and remembered deadlines weeks in advance.
Routine, importantly, was not emotional.
It certainly had nothing to do with a tiny cafe tucked inconveniently between a used bookstore and a flower shop five minutes off his normal route.
Nothing at all.

