The last customer had left almost half an hour ago, leaving the Weathervane in its usual after-hours stillness. The only light came from the orange bulbs strung across the front windows — fake cobwebs glowed faintly in their soft haze, and a plastic skeleton leaned crookedly against the counter. Tyler had swept the floor twice, wiped the same table three times, and was now leaning against the espresso machine, watching steam curl into the air.

Outside, the streets of Jericho were drenched in moonlight. Every so often, the wind carried laughter — the sound of children running between houses, their voices echoing through the empty streets. It should have felt festive. Instead, it just felt lonely.

He was reaching for his jacket when he heard it — that quiet, deliberate sound of footsteps. Not the clumsy kind that belonged to drunks or teenagers sneaking candy from the counter.

The steps stopped right outside the door. Then, a soft tap-tap against the glass. Tyler’s shoulders tensed instinctively — half-expecting a prank, half-expecting something much worse. When he turned, he almost dropped the mug still in his hand.

She stood there in the amber glow of the porch light, her dark hair slightly tangled from the wind, her coat buttoned up to her throat. A carved pumpkin flickered behind her, its hollow grin lighting her face just enough for him to see the smirk tugging at her lips.

Of course she’d come on Halloween.

He hesitated only a second before unlocking the door. The little bell above it chimed softly as she stepped in, bringing with her the sharp scent of autumn leaves and rain-soaked earth. “You’re closed,” she said matter-of-factly, brushing a leaf off her shoulder.

He shrugged, pretending to wipe down the counter again. “You never really cared about rules, did you?”

“I take them as suggestions,” she murmured, drifting toward the same table she always sat at. “Besides, it’s Halloween. Even the dead ignore curfews tonight.”

Tyler watched her sit, arms folded on the table, eyes tracing the window where the streetlights painted her reflection in faint gold. He still didn’t quite know what she saw in this place — or in him.

After everything.

He made her coffee anyway. Of course he did. He still remembered her order by heart — black, no sugar, but a little cinnamon if he had it. He slid the cup in front of her and leaned against the opposite chair. “So,” he said, “you risked suspension just for mediocre coffee?”