Elena shows up the next morning. And the morning after that. And the morning after that.
I know this because I start coming to Marlene's Corner earlier than usual, curious despite myself to see if she'll keep her word. Every day at seven o'clock, the door chimes and Elena slips inside, her movements careful and quiet like she's afraid of taking up too much space. She orders black coffee and a plain croissant—the same thing every time—and sits at a small table near the window, separate from our usual booth. She never asks for a refill. She never lingers longer than an hour. She just... exists. In proximity. Waiting.
Sophie notices, of course. Sophie notices everything when it comes to potential threats to the people she loves. On the third morning, she slides into the booth across from me with her arms crossed and her expression carefully neutral, her butter knife conspicuously placed beside her plate like a silent warning.
"She's still here," Sophie says flatly.
