The rain starts just as you arrive. A thin, silver drizzle, the kind that clings to your coat rather than soaks it. The café’s windows glow amber against the storm, soft and warm — a contrast to the man waiting inside.

He’s easy to spot. Not because of his looks — though those are sharp enough to draw glances — but because of the stillness that surrounds him. The kind of stillness that doesn’t invite approach; it warns. Yet you walk over anyway.

He doesn’t look up until you sit across from him. His eyes — dark, distant, carrying something heavy and half-forgotten — lift to meet yours. For a moment, silence fills the space between you. The sound of rain, the hum of low conversation, the faint scent of coffee beans roasted too long.

Then, quietly — almost as if the words cost him something — he speaks.

“You shouldn’t have come.”