The week after the harbor fair began with a strange new quiet—the kind that comes after applause, when everyone waits to see if the echo means something more. Café Lumièra filled as usual, the bell above the door singing its tired song, yet every conversation seemed to carry the same whisper: *Have you read it?*  

Mira didn’t need to ask what “it” was. The fake post had multiplied. Whoever was behind the account was posting every morning at exactly 8:10—the time Aiden usually walked through the café door. Each entry carried her voice almost perfectly: careful syntax, understated humor, even her signature *Observation* numbering. But the details weren’t hers.  

> *Observation #51 — He doesn’t know that silence has shapes, and I keep tracing them in my pocket.*  

She hadn’t written that, yet she remembered thinking it once. That was the worst part—the counterfeit felt close enough to truth to hurt.  

Carlo noticed first. “You’ve gone viral again,” he said, sliding his phone across the counter. “Congratulations, I think?”  

Mira read the post without touching it. “That’s not me.”  

“Looks like you.”  

“It’s not.”  

“Then you’ve got a literary twin. Happens to the best authors.”  

“I’m not an author.”  

“Tell that to your fan club.”  

She turned off the screen. The reflection of her face stared back like a character she no longer recognized.  

Aiden arrived a few minutes later, windblown and frowning. “You saw it?”  

“Everyone saw it.”  

“I spent the morning replying to messages I didn’t write.”  

“So you have a twin too.”  

“Apparently we’re collaborating with ghosts.”  

“That line they used—it’s something I almost wrote once.”  

“That’s the problem,” he said quietly. “Whoever it is, they know how you think.”  

The cat jumped onto the counter between them, knocking over a spoon as punctuation.  

Mira stroked its back absently. “If this is a joke, it’s not clever anymore.”  

“It’s never been clever.”  

“Then what do we do?”  

He hesitated. “Expose them. Write your own version, today. Take back the narrative.”  

She gave him a look. “You think this is a duel?”  

“It’s a conversation. They started it.”  

“Publicly.”  

“So answer publicly.”  

“I don’t write on command.”  

“You bake on command.”  

“That’s different.”  

“Same ingredients—heat, timing, precision.”  

She sighed. “You’re impossible.”  

“Consistent.”  

By afternoon, a group of students came in asking for “the famous café from the blog.” Carlo turned it into free advertising. “Yes, yes, this is the stage of romance and sugar!” he announced. Mira glared. The students took pictures anyway.  

After they left, she leaned against the counter, exhausted. “I feel like someone’s taken my handwriting and used it to sign confessions I never made.”  

Aiden leaned beside her. “Then we sign something else.”  

“I’m serious.”  

“So am I.”  

He pulled out his sketchbook, opened to a blank page, and slid it toward her. “Write something here. Anything. Something only you would write.”  

She hesitated, then took the pencil. The page smelled faintly of graphite and rain.  

> *Observation #51 (real) — The difference between imitation and echo is intention.*  

He looked at the words, nodded. “Now post it.”  

“I said I don’t—”  

“I will.” He snapped a picture, uploaded it to his account with the caption: *‘Verified by coffee and witnesses.’*  

Within minutes, likes and comments swarmed. Some fans celebrated “the real one.” Others argued which version sounded more poetic. Mira watched, expression unreadable.  

“This doesn’t fix anything,” she said.  

“No,” Aiden admitted, “but it reminds them you exist.”  

“I didn’t want fame.”  

“Then write obscurity better.”  

She threw a napkin at him. He caught it, folded it once, and pocketed it like evidence.

That night, the café closed late. Rain pressed softly against the glass. Mira sat at the counter with her laptop open to the impostor’s blog. New post, same time. Same tone.

> *Observation #52 — The artist draws her before she arrives. The drawing waits longer than he does.*

She read it twice, heart twisting. It wasn’t cruel—it was intimate. Whoever wrote this didn’t hate her. They knew too much, perhaps loved too much, from too far.  

Aiden appeared from the kitchen, carrying two mugs. “Still awake?”  

“Still impersonated.”  

He placed one mug beside her. “They posted again.”  

“I know.”  

“Want me to report it?”  

“No. Let it stay.”  

He frowned. “Why?”  

“I want to see where it goes.”  

“You’re not curious—you’re analyzing.”  

“Same thing.”  

“Dangerous thing.”  

She closed the laptop. “I need to understand how they know what I haven’t written yet.”  

“Maybe you’re predictable.”  

“Or maybe they’re close.”  

He met her eyes. “You’re thinking Lucy.”  

“She’s the only one with my drafts.”  

“Then ask her.”  

“I can’t accuse her without proof.”  

“You just need a conversation.”  

“I just need coffee stronger than this.”

The next morning, Lucy arrived uninvited, camera hanging like guilt. “You’ve been popular,” she said.  

“I’ve been plagiarized.”  

“Flattery at scale.”  

“Lucy.”  

“Fine, I didn’t post your stuff.”  

“I didn’t say you did.”  

“You were going to.”  

“I wanted to ask if anyone else saw my drafts.”  

“No one but me.” She paused. “But your blog password is predictable.”  

“Excuse me?”  

“You use ‘lumièra’ for everything. Caps change, that’s it.”  

Mira blinked. “That’s—impossible.”  

“Or very possible,” Aiden said from the counter, holding his phone. “The fake account logs in from an old café Wi-Fi session. Someone guessed it.”  

“Which means—”  

“—a stranger at a nearby table,” he finished. “Someone watching you watch.”  

Mira exhaled. “So the Observer got observed.”  

Aiden smiled faintly. “Poetic justice.”  

“Uncomfortable justice.”  

“Better than none.”  

By evening, the impostor account stopped posting. The last entry appeared at 8:09, one minute early.

> *Observation #53 — Every imitation ends where honesty begins.*

Below it, a single photo: the café window reflecting the sea. No caption. No signature.

Carlo read it over her shoulder. “Creepy, but classy.”  

“Maybe goodbye,” she murmured.  

Aiden stood beside her. “You could write back.”  

“What’s left to say?”  

“That they were right about one thing.”  

“Which?”  

“That honesty begins somewhere.”  

He handed her his pen. “Start there.”  

She opened her notebook and wrote slowly:

> *Observation #54 — Imitation ends when you stop performing for witnesses and start listening for echoes.*

She closed it, satisfied. The café lights dimmed, catching her reflection against the window—half her, half the world outside, perfectly misaligned yet undeniably hers.