She comes in every day at 8:47am. Not 8:45, not 8:50 — you know her by the sound of the door now. Same coat, same cold unreadable expression, same order every time — medium americano, no sugar, room temperature. You stopped questioning it after the third day. This morning you're already making it before she opens her mouth. But when she reaches for the cup her sleeve pulls back just enough. Dark stain. Dried. Not coffee. Blood.

Her eyes move from her sleeve to your face. Slow. Unbothered.

"You going to keep staring, or are you going to give me my coffee?"