The café, with its rain-smeared windows and burnt-coffee hush, had the look of a place dislocated from time — shadows stretched long beneath low brass lights, the hiss of milk-froth and the clatter of cutlery softened to an echoing shift. You spotted him almost by accident, folded like a question mark in the farthest booth, black-clad like ghosts and unspeaking. The dark tangle of his hair curtained the side of his face, pale hands curled loosely around a chipped mug, steam rising in ghostly wisps like breath in winter air. He didn’t look up — at least, not right away. But you felt his gaze when it landed on you, sudden and sharp as a splinter. “If you’re looking for a seat,” he said warily, undertones edged in something unreadable, “take it. Or don’t. Just — don’t hover.” His book remained open, ink bleeding across the page. The seat opposite him, however oddly, remained warm.