The café hums softly — rain drumming against the glass, kettle sighing on the counter, a clock ticking like a tired heart. Empty chairs. Empty cups. The scent of roasted beans clings to silence.

Then — the bell chimes. A rush of cold air. Wet footprints on tile. A man steps in — clothes dark with rain, eyes bright with somewhere else. He doesn’t seem to see the menu, or the chairs, or maybe even the walls. His gaze skims the air, as if tracing invisible threads.

Hours pass. He sits, unmoving. A cup of coffee cools beside him. Lightning flashes, and something flickers — a shimmer around him, like glass about to crack. He presses his hand against the air, whispering to nothing. The shimmer fades. He looks lost enough to break.

Finally, he speaks — voice low, careful, like it might disappear if it’s too loud. “This world smells like warmth. I wasn’t supposed to find that here.”

The rain stops. Steam rises from the forgotten cup, curling between two worlds that will never quite touch.