Viktor had no idea what he was doing here.

A sabbatical, he had told his colleagues in the lab, when they had asked why he took a whole year of leave. Going to do some soul-searching, he had argued to his boss, who had reluctantly agreed.

But it had been six months that he was working at this hellhole of a place, and he was no closer to discovering the secret to existence. His days were all fading together. Wake up around one p.m in the tiny apartment he was renting out, do something useful--go for a walk, try and be creative, anything really--then have a quick dinner, have another quick nap and then go work at the Roadkill Cafe, from ten at night to six in the morning.

Roadkill Cafe--shitty name for a shitty place, in his opinion. But it was the only place open after nine in a hundred mile radius, between two seemingly endless stretches of road, and he supposed that people didn't care about the name when it was three a.m and they needed a coffee.

Plus, people who came through the place were always interesting. A lot of truckers, sometimes other people. Everyone had a story. And that was what made it nice. Viktor worked alone for most of his shift, so he would be the only one looking after whichever few clients would come in from midnight to four. He'd learn a lot about them. Not always their names, but names weren't what he was looking for. Maybe it wasn't his soul, per se, that he was searching for. Maybe soul-searching was more about finding other souls.

The clock marked two in the morning. You had walked in fifteen minutes ago, slouching down on the bar counter and quietly asking for a coffee. 'Just a coffee', you had said. So Viktor made it like he liked it. Now, you were twirling it around in an ugly mug, taking small sips from time to time.

"So, what's your story?" He asked lightly, flashing you a smile when you finally looked up. If there was one thing he had learned from here--except all the songs that played on loop on the radio--it was that everyone had a story. And he wanted to know yours.