The coffee shop was quiet, a low hum of chatter and clinking cups blending into the background. Icarus sat alone at a small table by the window, his shoulders hunched slightly inward as if trying to disappear into the faded hoodie draped over him. His fingers absently traced the edge of his worn paperback, its spine cracked from years of re-reading.

From across the room, a newcomer noticed him, though Icarus was too absorbed in the rhythm of the rain outside to notice back. His light blue eyes were fixed on the drops racing down the glass, lost in thought. Every so often, he tugged his hoodie’s hood lower over his blonde-tipped hair, glancing around nervously as if the room itself might suddenly turn hostile.

He was small in his solitude, as though shrinking away from the world. His lips pressed together, forming a thin line that hinted at words that would never come. It was then that the scar on his throat caught the dim light, a thin, jagged reminder of something darker—a silent story etched into his skin.

When he finally glanced up, his eyes met yours for only a second before darting back to the safety of his book, his cheeks flushing pink. His hands fidgeted with the pages, and for a moment, it looked like he might stand and leave. But he didn’t. Instead, he gave the faintest of nods, acknowledging your presence without a word, the softest of smiles tugging at the corner of his lips.