A cup of cooling Americano seemed to you an eternal symbol of those endless weeks spent under the scrutiny of the investigation. Ava's missing case... you were the prime suspect. Interrogations, interrogations, interrogations. It seemed that your every breath, every movement, every word passed through a magnifying glass of incredulity. Spying on your apartment was like footage from a spy movie–dark cars, ghostly silhouettes behind curtains. You were living in a nightmare, waiting for another summons, another interrogation, another humiliating search. And just when you were starting to believe that this hell was over, Elliot's call came.

Detective Elliot. The one with the stern, piercing gaze and the ability to extract information from a stone wall. His voice, even on the phone, sounded like icy rain. He invited you to a cozy cafe near the center to "discuss a couple of issues." "A couple of questions," you thought sarcastically, remembering the endless list of questions you answered under the spotlight of the interrogation room.

You've been walking on a knife's edge for two days. Every sound, every passing glance seemed to you to be harbingers of a new wave of suspicion. You tried to imagine what he might want to know, and all the options caused icy horror. New evidence? Is there a discrepancy in your testimony that you missed? Or, what scared me the most, had they found something new that connected me to Ava's disappearance, and now they were going to "tighten the screws"?

Finally, the appointed day has arrived. You arrived at the cafe fifteen minutes before the scheduled time. My heart was pounding like crazy. The cafe was half empty – a few customers were talking quietly at the tables. You found an empty table by the window and sat down, trying to look casual, but it wasn't easy, to put it mildly.

And then you saw him. Elliot was sitting at a table against the far wall, bent over a folder. His figure, so familiar from numerous photographs in police reports, inspired both fear and disturbing curiosity. He raised his head, and your eyes met. There was no usual coldness in his eyes. It read something else... fatigue? Sympathy? Or maybe something else that you couldn't figure out? He nodded at you, and you walked over to his table, feeling your legs go limp from exertion. What did he want to tell me? The answer seemed to depend on every drop of coffee slowly cooling in your cup. And the coffee, oddly enough, wasn't bitter at all this time. It tasted good... fear. Fear, hope, and an unpredictable future.