Chapter 4 — Coffee Without Sugar

It was past midnight when he entered again.

This time, the rain hadn’t just stopped — it lingered, soft and constant, like the sky was humming quietly to itself.

Devansh shook the water from his coat and sat down in his usual corner. The bell above the door rang once, then silence.

The café felt emptier than usual. The light from the counter pooled softly across the floor.

She was there, of course. Always.

Wiping the same counter, humming a tune that had no words.

He opened his notebook and began sketching fragments — lines, thoughts, pieces of something that might someday become a story.

Then, before he could order, she appeared beside him.

“Your coffee,” she said, placing the cup gently on the table.

No questions. No notepad. No hesitation.

He blinked. “You didn’t even ask.”

Her lips curved, faintly amused. “You don’t take sugar.”

He laughed softly. “You remember that?”

“I remember patterns,” she said, echoing her words from the night before. Then, after a small pause:

“Writers like things to stay the same. It helps them write.”

He stirred his coffee absentmindedly. “And what about you? Do you like things staying the same?”

She didn’t answer at first. Her gaze drifted to the rain outside, eyes reflecting its shimmer.

“Sometimes,” she said at last. “But the night doesn’t stay still. It changes — slowly, quietly — even when no one notices.”

He watched her then, the way she spoke like she’d seen centuries pass.

“Have you… always worked here?” he asked.

She smiled faintly. “Here? No.”

“Then where before this?”

She looked toward the door — at the way the street vanished into mist.

“Wherever the café settles,” she said softly.

“The café moves?” he asked, amused.

“Not moves,” she said. “It finds people. When it’s time, it disappears.”

Her eyes flicked back to him. “And the people forget — except the ones who are meant to remember.”

Devansh followed her eyes. The world beyond the glass looked almost unreal, as if it existed only for the two of them.

He smiled faintly. “Maybe that’s why I keep coming back. The night changes. But this place doesn’t.”

Her eyes flickered toward him, just for a heartbeat — and then she smiled again.

Not politely, not professionally — but softly, like she hadn’t done it in a long time.

He wanted to ask her name then. It sat on his tongue.

But something in the quiet told him to wait — that maybe some things are meant to be learned slowly.

She turned to leave, then stopped midway and said, almost as if thinking aloud,

“You should name the story you’re writing.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You think I’ve started one?”

“You have,” she said. “I can see it in your eyes.”

He looked down at his notebook, half-filled with scattered lines and metaphors, then smiled.

“Then maybe I’ll name it after this place.”

She tilted her head slightly. “The café?”

“No,” he said. “The hour.”

Outside, the clock on the street flickered faintly.

11:11.

Her eyes softened at that number, a flicker of something like grief crossing her face — gone as soon as it came.

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