Chapter 9: The Beginning
After a few minutes of walking, we arrived at Whimsy Coffee Shop-the gold standard for people who have given up on their dreams but still need to be awake.
The sign buzzed overhead, its fluorescent tubes flickering in that particular rhythm that suggested one more storm would finally kill it for good.
WHIMSY. COFFEE. SINCE- the letters stuttered-WE FORGOT.
The door was propped open with a worn copy of a business textbook from 2008, its pages yellowed and swollen from years of spilled coffee and humidity.
Whimsy isn't a "third place"; it's a transit lounge for the soul.
Nobody "lingers" here.
You sit for exactly twenty-two minutes-long enough for the caffeine to hit your bloodstream but not long enough for the plastic chairs to fuse to your skin-and then you vanish.
The chairs themselves are a specific shade of off-white that was probably beige in the 90s but has since absorbed decades of coffee stains, existential despair, and the occasional unidentified sticky substance that everyone pretends not to notice.
There is no community here.
No one knows the barista's name, and the barista prefers it that way; if they don't know your name, they don't have to feel guilty about what they're serving you.
It's the kind of place that feels transient, like the building is just resting here for a few months before it inevitably transforms into a laundromat or a shady check-cashing store.
The barista today was a guy in his early twenties named-actually, I didn't know his name.
Nobody did.
He had tired eyes that had given up on life approximately three years ago, a nose ring that caught the fluorescent light, and the slumped posture of someone whose soul had already clocked out even if his body hadn't.
He wore the standard Whimsy apron-once black, now faded to a depressing gray-and moved behind the counter with the mechanical precision of someone operating on autopilot.
He didn't look up when we walked in.
He never did.
---
I approached the counter first.
"House Drip," I said flatly.
The barista grunted.
Reached for a cup.
Filled it from the glass pot that had been sitting on the burner for precisely forty-five minutes-never fresh, yet somehow immune to aging.
It was the "vampire" of coffees.
Undead.
Immortal.
Completely devoid of soul.
I handed over P356.22.
The barista took it without acknowledgement.
Demi bounced up beside me.
"Chai Latte. Large. And-" he leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially,
"-do you have oat milk?"
The barista didn't even look up.
He just pointed a trembling finger at a stack of non-dairy creamer packets near the register.
The packets looked like they were manufactured in the late 90s-faded logos, slightly yellowed plastic, the kind of vintage that wasn't charming, just concerning.
"We have water," the barista muttered.
Demi sighed dramatically, accepted his cup of beige powder dissolved in hot water, and slid the payment across the counter.
I watched this exchange with the uncomfortable feeling that I'd witnessed it before.
Down to the barista's exact finger-point. Down to the exact tone of "we have water."
Déjà vu, I told myself firmly. Just déjà vu.
---
We sat at our usual table-the one near the window but far enough from the door to avoid the draft, with the slightly wobbly leg that you had to compensate for by leaning back at precisely the right angle.
The plastic chairs groaned under our weight.
Mine had a crack in the seat that someone had tried to fix with duct tape years ago.
The tape was now peeling, its edges curled and gray with accumulated filth.
I took a sip of my House Drip.
It tasted exactly as it always did-like a burnt car tire that had been handled with care, bitterness masked by three creamers that did nothing to hide the fundamental wrongness of what I was drinking.
Demi stared into his foam-if you could call it foam.
It was more like bubbles floating on the surface of sadness.
"One day, El," he whispered,
"One day, we'll work at a marketing firm that pays us in actual cow secretions."
I leaned back, letting the chair groan its usual protest.
"But why do you always ask for oat milk even though you know they don't have it?"
I was genuinely curious about this specific brand of insanity he performed daily.
The question felt automatic-like I'd asked it before.
Which I had.
Many times.
But this time, the words echoed strangely in my own ears.
You've asked this before, a voice whispered in my mind.
You've had this exact conversation.
Demi shrugged, taking a cautious sip of his Chai-flavored cinnamon regret.
"Well, you know... it's just for extra words. To make the interaction feel longer."
"Make it long for what?"
My eyebrows knitted together.
Was he trying to find love at the counter of a failing coffee shop?
Was that his master plan?
To woo the apathetic barista with requests for non-existent milk alternatives?
"Nothing, just don't mind me," he mumbled, his eyes darting away as if he'd said too much.
He's going to change the subject now, I thought.
He's going to mention Syka.
The thought appeared fully formed in my mind-not a guess, not a prediction, but a certainty.
Demi suddenly pivoted, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper.
"By the way, El, have you heard the news about our old classmate, Syka?"
There it is.
My thumb began scrolling through my phone-an automatic motion, a way to avoid making eye contact with the suspicious-looking stain on our table that I'd noticed the moment we sat down.
The stain was shaped vaguely like South America.
I'd noticed it before too.
"What about her?" I asked.
"She made it. She's officially in the Top 10 Associates of Lesive Association."
My thumb froze on the screen.
Lesive.
The giants.
The only ones who can actually make Tate Association look like a lemonade stand.
The words were there, waiting for me, like lines from a script I'd memorized without realizing it.
I said them anyway.
What else could I do?
"Lesive? The giants? The only ones who can actually make Tate Association look like a lemonade stand?"
"The very same."
Demi nodded, his expression a mix of genuine awe and mild existential dread.
"I didn't expect her to actually breach the walls of our rival company, let alone lead the pack."
"Good for her."
The words felt heavy.
Like lead.
Like someone else's words that I was merely borrowing.
I let out a long, weary sigh and shrugged my shoulders, trying to shake off the sudden weight of my own mediocrity.
"She always said she'd be a Lesive Associate. And she did it."
I looked down at my House Drip, watching the steam rise-steam that shouldn't exist on a coffee that had been sitting for forty-five minutes, but somehow Whimsy's House Drip operated outside the laws of thermodynamics.
You're going to whisper something now, the voice in my mind whispered.
Something about being a paper-pusher.
And Demi won't hear it.
I leaned closer to the cup, my voice dropping so Demi couldn't catch the words.
"What about me? I've been working nonstop for years and I'm still just a Marketing Assistant... a professional paper-pusher."
I took a gulp of coffee.
It was lukewarm and tasted exactly like my life-bitter, cheap, and slightly burnt at the edges.
"What are you muttering about?"
Demi's voice cut through.
"Stop being miserable like it's your final moment on Earth-"
Here it comes.
The interruption.
The door burst open.
---
A group of loud customers exploded into the shop, laughing with a volume that suggested they had never heard of the concept of 'indoor voices.'
There were five of them-all women, all dressed in blazers that were trying very hard to look expensive.
I watched them enter like I was watching a movie I'd seen before.
The first one through the door was the loudest-a blonde with too much enthusiasm and a laugh that could shatter glass.
She held the door open for her friends, nearly hitting a passing pedestrian in the process.
Behind her came a woman with an expensive leather tote that was definitely real leather, definitely expensive, and definitely being carried with the specific intention of letting everyone know it was expensive.
Her eyes swept the room with the dismissive glance of someone who already knew she was better than everyone present.
Then came two more-one with glasses and a resting bitch face that could curdle milk, another who was already on her phone, typing furiously, her expression suggesting she was either closing a business deal or breaking up with someone. Possibly both.
And then-
The fifth one.
The one who moved like water.
While her companions clattered and clanked and announced their presence to everyone within a three-block radius, she simply... flowed.
She walked through the door without seeming to open it.
She moved past the tables without seeming to navigate them.
She existed in a different dimension than the chaos surrounding her, calm and centered and utterly untouchable.
The blazer they all wore was, on her, not a costume.
On the others, it was armor-something to hide behind, something to prove they belonged.
On her, the severe cut of the navy fabric looked like a statement of intent, a silent announcement of authority that didn't need to be spoken because it was simply true.
Her dark hair was pulled back-not severely, just practically-and her glasses caught the fluorescent light in a way that made her eyes impossible to read.
I couldn't stop staring.
You've seen her before, the voice in my mind whispered.
You know what happens next.
The group approached the counter.
The barista-bless his apathetic soul-didn't even look up.
"I'll have a flat white," the loud blonde announced, slapping the counter.
"Extra shot. And make it quick, we're on a schedule."
The barista grunted.
The woman with the leather tote ordered something complicated involving oat milk and sugar-free syrup.
The barista pointed at the creamer packets.
She looked offended.
The woman with glasses ordered black coffee, no sugar, no nonsense, her eyes never leaving her phone.
The one who'd been typing furiously ordered something called a "nitro cold brew with sweet cream foam" that took forty-five seconds to explain and probably cost more than my weekly coffee budget.
And then-
The fifth one stepped forward.
Her voice was quiet.
I couldn't hear the words from where I sat.
But I saw the barista's expression shift-just slightly, just for a moment-from apathy to something almost like respect.
She paid.
She stepped back.
She waited.
And then the group turned to find seats.
---
They're going to sit near us, I thought.
They're going to sit at the table next to ours.
The one with the chair that doesn't wobble.
I watched them scan the room.
Watched the loud blonde's eyes land on our section.
Watched her gesture to her friends.
They moved toward us.
The leather tote woman's bag hit the floor with a thud that sounded suspiciously like cheap plastic-which was interesting, given how expensive it was supposed to look.
The loud blonde dropped into a chair with the grace of a collapsing building.
The glasses woman immediately pulled out a tablet.
The furious-typer resumed her phone obsession.
And the fifth one-the one who moved like water-sat down gracefully, crossing one leg over the other, her posture perfect, her expression unreadable.
They were right next to us.
Close enough that I could smell their perfume-a mix of expensive floral and whatever they sold at the drugstore when the expensive stuff ran out.
Any second now, I thought.
Any second, the loud one will say it.
The loud blonde leaned toward her friend-the furious-typer, who was clutching her complicated cold brew like a holy relic.
"You drink coffee like it's a personality trait!" she shrieked with a laugh.
There it is.
"Excuse me!" her friend fired back, clutching her cup tighter.
"I'll have you know I'm a complex blend of anxiety and caffeine!"
I turned to look at Demi.
He was already looking at me, his expression exactly what I expected-a mix of amusement and deadpan judgment.
The irony was physically painful.
"How many cups have you had today?" the loud blonde asked, sounding genuinely horrified.
"I lost count after I started seeing sounds and hearing colors," the caffeine-addict replied.
Her eyes were wide and slightly twitchy, like she'd been mainlining espresso since birth.
"Maybe switch to decaf?"
"Decaf is just hot bean juice with false promises. I don't trust it!"
She slammed her cup down with more force than necessary.
"One day my heart is going to quit on me, but worth it! At least my funeral will smell like espresso!"
Demi turned back to me, gesturing toward the loud table with his plastic spoon.
"See, El?"
His voice dripped with dry humor.
"And you think your life is bitter? At least we aren't at the 'seeing sounds' stage of the Marketing Assistant career path. That's usually reserved for Senior Management."
I felt a small, reluctant smile crack through my gloom.
The words came automatically-the same words I'd said before, in another version of this moment.
"True. If my heart quits, it'll probably just smell like this P356.22 House Drip.
Nobody wants to attend a funeral that smells like a burnt tire."
"Exactly."
Demi grinned, holding up his powdered Chai.
"To be stuck in the middle! It's safer for the heart rate."
And now, the voice whispered, now they'll notice us.
The laughter at the neighboring table died down.
My chair scraped against the floor as I shifted position-a small movement, barely noticeable-but in the sudden quiet, it sounded like a tectonic shift.
I tried to look invisible.
A skill I'd perfected in corporate meetings.
But Demi was still holding his Chai aloft like a trophy.
For a long moment, the girl I couldn't stop staring at-the one who moved like water, the one whose beauty had snagged my attention and held it hostage-froze mid-sip.
Her gaze drifted over to our table.
Sharp.
Unnervingly precise.
Like she was cutting through the dim light of Whimsy just to land on me.
Here it comes, I thought.
This is where it starts.
"Oh look," she said, her voice dropping into a playful but intimidating lilt.
"We have an audience. Do you think they're fans of the 'Seeing Sounds' tour, or just critics?"
Her four friends turned in unison.
Five pairs of eyes pinned us to our thrifted velvet chairs.
"I think they're analysts," the woman with the expensive leather tote chimed in, leaning forward with a smirk that screamed Ivy League audacity.
"Look at the posture. Definitely judging our caffeine-to-sanity ratio."
I watched Demi react.
Watched the caught-red-handed panic flash across his face before he smoothed it over with his natural charm.
Watched his grip tighten on his plastic spoon even as his shoulders relaxed.
"Guilty as charged,"
Demi said, flashing that grin that usually worked on grumpy baristas.
"Though, to be fair, your manifesto on decaf being 'false promises' is the most honest thing I've heard all fiscal year."
And now me. I say my line.
"We weren't judging."
My voice came out steadier than I felt.
"We were mostly just admiring the commitment to the bit. It's hard to find that kind of passion in a Marketing department."
The girls didn't look offended.
If anything, they seemed amused.
Their leader-the one I'd been staring at-caught me looking.
She adjusted her glasses and gave us both a slow once-over, her gaze clinical and assessing.
Like I was a specimen pinned beneath her lens.
"Marketing, you say?"
Her tone shifted into something mock-formal.
"Well then, as representatives of the 'Over-Caffeinated and Under-Appreciated' demographic, we demand a professional evaluation.
Is my friend's heart palpitations a brand liability or a niche aesthetic?"
The caffeine-addict clutched her cup to her chest as if protecting a child.
"It's an aesthetic! Vibrant. Jumpy. Highly caffeinated chic!"
Demi leaned in, narrowing his eyes like he was examining a high-stakes pitch deck.
"From a branding perspective? I'd say it's 'Urgent Minimalism.'
You've stripped away the unnecessary fluff of sleep to focus on the core product: pure, unadulterated jitters."
My turn again.
I pointed to the caffeine-addict's twitching left eye.
"I'd argue it's a liability. If the brand's face starts vibrating during a client pitch, you might accidentally summon a demon.
Or worse-an HR representative."
The table of five erupted in a chorus of surprisingly elegant laughter.
The girl in the blazer-the one with the sharp eyes and the water-like movements-pulled out a business card.
It looked like it cost more than my entire wardrobe.
The edges were perfectly trimmed.
The logo was minimalist, gold-leafed, and whispered of a world I only saw through glass windows.
She slid it across the scarred wood of the table toward us.
"You two are far too witty to be drinking burnt House Drip in silence," she said, her eyes twinkling with a sudden, sharp intelligence.
"I'm Aletheia. We're celebrating-or mourning, depending on the hour-the launch of a new firm.
We could use people who know how to find the humor in a 'burnt tire' funeral."
Demi picked up the card with the grace of a seasoned diplomat.
"Demi. And this is El, the best Marketing Assistant currently wasting his life in a cubicle."
He winked at me.
I wanted to kill him.
The card.
He's going to hand me the card.
Demi passed it over.
I looked at it.
The logo.
The name.
Aletheia.
An old-world word for truth, worn like a shield.
"I'm El," I confirmed.
"And I usually smell less like burnt tires. I promise."
"We'll see," Aletheia laughed.
She stood.
Her friends gathered their bags-Vesper, trailing the scent of expensive clove cigarettes;
Lyra, whose eyes remained fixed on her tablet like she was decoding the stock market;
Sloane, who gave me a look so sharp it could have sliced my House Drip in half;
and the caffeine-addict, whose name I still didn't know.
At the corner table, Caelum-the local caffeine-junkie-in-residence-let out a low, jagged whistle.
She looked like she hadn't slept since the last solar eclipse, her fingers twitching rhythmically against a double-shot espresso cup.
"Don't let the coffee kill you before Monday,"
Aletheia added, her three shadows already moving toward the door.
"There's a world outside of paper-pushing, El. Sometimes you just have to scream loudly enough to be heard over the espresso machine."
The bells chimed over the door.
They were gone.
The shop fell suddenly, hollowly quiet-save for the frantic tink-tink-tink of Caelum's spoon hitting her saucer.
Demi stared at the card in my hand like it was a golden ticket.
"Whoa."
He breathed the word.
Then he nudged my shoulder hard.
"Look at you, El. Smelling like a literal tire fire and you still manage to bag a girl who looks like she owns half of Landsburge.
Is this a 'meet-cute' or did you accidentally cast a spell?"
"Shut up, Demi."
My heart was already thrumming against my ribs.
But not for the reasons he thought.
"I'm serious! Aletheia? That's the 'main character' name."
He leaned in close.
"She's got the blazer, the mysterious entourage, and she gave you the card.
Even Caelum over there stopped vibrating for two seconds to look at her.
I bet she's got a yacht. Can I come on the yacht, El? Please tell me I'm invited to the wedding."
"There is no wedding. I don't even know her."
I reached out to snatch the card from his fingers.
He pulled it back, grinning.
"Well, check the back. Maybe it's her number. Or a room key. Go on, Loverboy, see what your future holds."
He handed it over.
I flipped the card.
Stop looking for the exit.
The words hit me like a physical blow.
Below them, a tiny, hand-drawn symbol-a bird with its wings pinned back.
The same doodle I'd scratched into the dirt of my childhood playground twenty years ago.
The same one I'd burned into the back of my closet when I was ten.
A symbol I had never shown a living soul.
My playful retort died in my throat.
The atmosphere evaporated, replaced by a suffocating chill.
I've seen this before, the voice in my mind screamed.
I've lived this before.
The card.
The symbol.
All of it.
I looked at Demi.
His face was still twisted in that teasing grin.
But he looked like a stranger.
Everyone in the room looked like a stranger.
"El?"
Demi's brow furrowed as my face went ash-white.
"You okay, man? You look like you just saw your own ghost."
My fingers trembled. The card fluttered to the floor.
"I think," I whispered,
"I think I just did."
The words hung in the air.
And somewhere, in the back of my mind, I heard her voice-Kaye's voice, from the dream-soft and warm and impossibly patient:
Time is weird here.
But this wasn't here.
This was supposed to be real.
So why did it feel like I was living someone else's memory?