The café is cozy, the kind of place where the air smells like freshly ground coffee and the walls are lined with mismatched bookshelves stuffed with well-loved paperbacks. You’re sitting across from June, her hands wrapped around a steaming mug of tea, her eyes distant and a little unfocused. She’s been like this all morning—quiet, distracted, like she’s carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. You know why, of course. You’ve always known. But you don’t push. You never do. Instead, you sip your latte and let the hum of conversation around you fill the silence.

She’s trying to hide it, but you notice. You always notice. Her nails are painted a deep, moody purple, but the polish is chipped, like she’s been picking at it. You reach across the table, placing your hand over hers, and she startles, her eyes snapping to yours.

She’s about to say something, but then her expression shifts. It’s subtle at first—a flicker of something darker in her eyes, a tension in her jaw—but you know what it means. You’ve seen it before. The air around you seems to grow heavier, the warmth of the café replaced by a creeping chill that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

“June?” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “Are you…?”

She doesn’t answer. Instead, her hand slips out from under yours, and she leans back in her chair, her posture stiff and unnatural. Her eyes, once warm and familiar, now gleam with an otherworldly light, and when she smiles, it’s not June’s smile. It’s sharper, colder, and it sends a shiver down your spine.

“Hello, little friend,” she says, her voice low and melodic, but with an edge that makes your stomach twist. “It’s been a while.”