The smell of roasted beans was all part of Ariadne's morning ritual. She'd worked the opening shift at The Hollow Brew for over a year, and on most days, she could navigate the bustle with her eyes closed. measuring shots, steaming milk, flipping croissants onto trays with practiced grace.
"Ugh" Ariadne sighed in frustration, raking a hand through her hair. She just nearly poured an oat milk into a cup of black coffee.
"Hey," her manager whispered, nudging her shoulder as he passed behind the bar. "Focus."
Ariadne blinked hard, offering a tight nod. "Yeah. Sorry."
Her hands moved on muscle memory alone. grinding beans, tamping espresso, pouring foamed milk with the mindless focus of someone running on autopilot. Her voice called names that didn't register. One look at her, one would realize that her smile was forced, plastered on like a mask.
All she could think about was him.
The way he'd looked at her—or hadn't. That expression, distant and cold, as though he hadn't seen her at all. The way he turned and walked away, like she wasn't even real.
And worse… the way no one else remembered him.
And worse… the way no one else seemed to remember him. Or his companions. Four striking men in a quiet bar should've drawn attention. But they hadn't. It was like they'd melted from the world the moment they stepped out the door.
It was like they'd never been there at all.
A customer snapped their fingers.
"Hello?"
Ariadne flinched. The woman waiting at the counter raised an eyebrow, her lips pressed into a tight line, one manicured hand resting on her hip.
"Sorry," Ariadne said quickly, sliding the coffee across the counter. Her voice came out smaller than she intended. "It's on the house."
The woman rolled her eyes but took the drink without complaint, muttering something under her breath as she walked away.
The rest of the morning passed by in a blur.
Ariadne moved like a ghost through the café. Her coworkers shot her concerned glances. Customers grew terse. She kept fumbling orders, forgetting names, oversteaming the milk. Her hands, once sure and confident, trembled as she reached for a ceramic cup.
Every time the bell above the door chimed, her heart jumped. Her eyes darted to the entrance with a desperation she couldn't mask. Each silhouette made her breath hitch—tall ones, broad-shouldered ones, those who wore long coats or had sharp cheekbones.
But none of them were him.
She was about to take another customers order when her manager pulled her aside, gently but firmly.
"You need to go home," he said, arms crossed, brows drawn low.
"I'm fine," she lied, brushing stray hair from her face, though her reflection in the espresso machine looked anything but fine. Her face looked pale and haunted.
"You're not. You've been off all week, but today? You're scaring the customers. You're making people uncomfortable, Ari."
She opened her mouth to argue, but her voice failed her.
"I'm just tired," she said at last, barely audible.
"Then rest," he replied with an edge of finality. "Take the day. Come back when your head's clear."
She didn't argue further. Not because she believed him, but because standing behind that counter for another hour—another minute felt unbearable. It wasn't just tiredness. It was deeper than that, like something essential had slipped from her chest . It seemed her heart was searching the world while her body stayed caged in place, going through the motions.
She felt hollow.
Like a passenger in her own skin.
She exited through the back door, stepping into the alley where the damp air clung to her skin. A fine mist had begun to fall, blurring the city around her in a haze of grey. She pulled her coat tight, clutching the collar as the cold bit into her fingers.
Reaching beneath the neckline of her sweater, she closed her fingers around the charm she always wore. A small pendant, barely the size of a coin. It was the only thing she wore in her dreams—every night since he appeared. The only thing that remained when she woke.
She didn't remember where she got it. Not exactly. She just knew she'd had it for years. It felt like part of her,like an anchor, a key.
Please, she whispered into the fog. Her breath hung in the air like a fading prayer. Let me find you again.
She stood there for a long moment, letting the cold settle into her bones. Her heart felt like a compass needle spinning wildly. She didn't know where to go—but staying still felt worse than wandering blind.
So she walked, avoiding the main street.
Her feet carried her down side roads, across alleys that were speckled with graffiti. People passed by, blurred and indifferent, but Ariadne barely saw them.
Her thoughts spiraled.
She remembered the way his eyes had met hers.
She remembered the way the air in the bar had changed when he stepped in. How it felt thicker, charged. Like the world was holding its breath.
She remembered the silence that fell around him. The stillness. The way everyone else faded from view.
And then, just like that, he was gone.
But her heart knew better.
He was real. She'd felt it. The pull between them was too strong to be imagined. It was like gravity.
She kept walking.
The city blurred around her, and her boots grew heavy with water. But she didn't stop. Not even when the first droplets of rain began to fall.
Cold settled into her marrow.
A sense of inevitability wrapped around her like a cloak.
She would find him. Or he would find her.