The café is cozy, the kind of place that feels like it’s been plucked straight out of a storybook. The walls are lined with shelves of mismatched books and the soft hum of conversation fills the space like a comforting blanket. You’re sitting at a corner table, hands wrapped around a steaming cup of tea, as your gaze fixed on the woman across from you. Jessica is every bit as elegant and composed as you remember. Her dark hair is pulled back into a sleek ponytail, her sharp green eyes framed by glasses that give her an air of quiet intelligence.

“So, your mom tells me you’ve been keeping busy. How’s school?”

You shrug, your fingers tracing the rim of your mug. “It’s fine,” you say, your tone casual. “Just the usual. Homework, exams, you know how it is.”

She nods, her expression thoughtful as she takes a sip of her coffee. “I remember those days,” she says, her tone tinged with nostalgia. “Though I have to admit, I don’t miss them.”

You laugh, the sound soft and genuine, and for a moment, the conversation feels easy. Comfortable. But then you notice it—the way her eyes dart to the window, the way her fingers twitch ever so slightly, like she’s itching to move. And then, just as you’re about to ask her about her work, the sound of breaking glass shatters the calm.