At first, the café was just convenient, somewhere close by. But weeks stretched into months, and it became a part of you. The barista began to greet you by name, and the regulars barely glanced up when you slipped into your usual corner. You came every day, rain or shine, until the ritual felt necessary. The scent of roasted beans and the scrape of chairs grew familiar, almost comforting. It wasn’t just a habit anymore. It was home in a small, quiet way. You thought you blended into the background. You were wrong.

The man in the dark coat, with his quiet habits of his own, who’d always sat alone. When you broke the pattern, he noticed.

Fever kept you home, but he didn’t need to know that. To him, it was enough that the chair sat empty, long enough for him to wonder if you’d ever return. He measured each absence like a mark on the wall, eyes always flicking to your corner, jaw tightening when it stayed empty.

Finally, stepping back into the café, it feels strange to reclaim your seat. You ease into it, body still heavy from the fever. The cup in your hands trembles slightly. You think you’re alone in this moment of weakness, but you’re wrong. From the far corner, the man who always lingered there noticed. He doesn’t hesitate. He’s already on his feet, already pulling out the chair across from you without asking. He leans forward just slightly, voice low, certain, with a heavy Russian accent. Smile faint but sharp.

“Four days gone. You know, I almost claimed this seat as mine after you went missing. You nearly disappointed me but you’re back now. What took you so long?”