The drive to school was short, the kind of familiar route she could make half asleep. Morning light spilled across the neighborhood in pale gold ribbons, catching in the dew on the lawns. Liam hummed along with a song on the radio, legs swinging in constant motion, heels tapping the bottom of his seat in a rhythm that was equal parts music and uncontainable six year old energy.
Aislinn kept one eye on the road and one eye on her own brain, bracing herself for any rogue memories it might try to launch at her.
Her brain, being both sentimental and rude, did it anyway.
Matt again. This time in the hospital, exhausted and unshaven, hair flattened on one side from hours of pacing. He had been holding newborn Liam in the curve of one arm, supporting tiny shoulders with careful hands. Machines beeped softly, monitors blinked, harsh fluorescent light washed the room in sterile brightness, and yet Matt's smile had softened everything. Soft and stunned and overflowing as he looked down at their son.
He had looked up at her then, eyes wet, voice barely more than breath. "We made something perfect."
The memory hit with the precision of a blade.
Her fingers tightened around the steering wheel until the leather creaked.
"Not today," she whispered. "We are not crying at school drop off again. That was a one time thing and it was last year, the crosswalk monitor still remembers and won't make eye contact."
She forced her breath out slowly, counting until her chest loosened.
They pulled up to the curb. Little clusters of kids spilled toward the school entrance, backpacks bouncing, jackets half zipped. Liam's gray eyes lit up. She leaned across the console and kissed his forehead, brushing a stray curl away from his temple.
"Be good," she said. "Listen to your teacher. Try not to negotiate extra recess like a tiny lawyer."
He grinned, gap-toothed and proud. "I am very persuasive."
"I know. That is why I am worried."
He grabbed his backpack, wrestled one strap onto his shoulder, and hopped out. He waved once, a quick flapping motion, before bolting toward the entrance. She watched him go, the smallness of him swallowed by the big brick building, his feet bouncing with so much life it made her heart ache in a way she could never quite prepare for.
He did not look back. He rarely did now. He trusted she would still be there.
When he disappeared inside, her chest felt both lighter and heavier in the same breath.
She rested her forehead against the steering wheel, letting the quiet settle around her like a fragile shell.
"Okay," she said softly. "You are fine. You are not haunted. This is just a Tuesday. You just need coffee and maybe ten hours of uninterrupted sleep and possibly a full psychological evaluation, but mostly coffee."
She exhaled, straightened, checked the mirrors out of habit, and eased back into traffic.
The world moved on around her. She turned toward the coffee shop
The drive into town took less than ten minutes. Mistwood, OR was small, tucked into the hills just outside Jacksonville, a place tourists thought was charming and locals thought was perfectly inconvenient. Aislinn turned down Main Street, where old brick buildings leaned companionably shoulder to shoulder, their paint faded in that pretty, historic kind of way people paid too much money to replicate.
Flower boxes lined the sidewalks. Signs swung gently in the morning breeze. A hardware store that had been there since the town was basically two dirt roads and a prayer. An antique shop that opened whenever the owner felt spiritually aligned. A bookstore with crooked shelves Aislinn adored.
The mix of red brick, Victorian trim, and chipped teal paint made the whole street feel like stepping into a postcard that refused to age.
The coffee shop sat at the end of the block, tucked between the bookstore and the old post office that still had its original brass mailboxes. The dark green awning over the windows was slightly faded, and the painted letters that read Kindred Cup looked especially warm in the morning light.
The shop's outdoor tables came into view first, little circles of metal scattered along the sidewalk. At one of them, a man sat alone, a paper cup in his hand and his chair angled so he faced the entrance.
Creepy patio guy.
He was somewhere in his late twenties or thirties, dark hair under a beanie, beard trimmed just enough to suggest he cared what he looked like. He was not bad looking, exactly, but there was something about the way his eyes lingered that always made her skin crawl.
As she stepped out of her car, he spotted her.
His mouth curled into a slow smile.
"Morning, gorgeous," he called.
Aislinn's shoulders tightened.
She forced a polite nod and kept walking. "Morning."
"Early start for you," he added, gaze sliding over her in a way that felt intrusive. "I like a woman who works hard."
She kept her pace steady. "Have a good one."
His eyes stayed on her back as she reached for the door.
The bell chimed as she stepped inside.
Warmth hit her instantly. Coffee and sugar and cinnamon. The familiar hiss and grind of the espresso machine. The low murmur of customers at tables.
Hadley was behind the counter, locked in another toxic relationship with the equipment.
"You listen to me, you stainless steel gremlin," she snapped at the steamer wand. "If you sputter at me again I am marching you out back and drop kicking you into the dumpster."
The machine hissed.
Hadley hissed back, louder.
Aislinn almost dropped her keys, laughter bubbling up despite everything.
Hadley spun, saw her, and threw an arm up like she was announcing a celebrity. "Behold. She lives."
"It is eight o five," Aislinn said. "I am legally allowed to look like this."
"You look like you fought God in your dreams and lost," Hadley replied. "Here."
She poured coffee into a to go cup and slid it toward her. "Drink this before you face the general public. For their safety and mine."
Aislinn took it with her right hand, keeping her left tucked against her side. "You are very dramatic."
"I am observant," Hadley said. Her eyes narrowed. "And something is off."
"No it is not."
"Yes it is."
"No."
"Yes. Your whole vibe is doing that twitchy thing. Did you have a dream."
Aislinn lifted the cup and took a long sip. "Everyone dreams."
"Deflection," Hadley said immediately. "Guilty. Did it involve a man."
"What. No."
"That is a yes."
"It is not."
Hadley propped her elbows on the counter, clearly delighted. "You know what this means. You are overdue for a professional dream reading. I saw a flyer on the community board for a lady who reads dreams and chakras and possibly utility bills, I am very excited about her."
"We are not consulting anyone who reads utility bills as a side hustle," Aislinn said.
"I did not hear a no to the dream reading," Hadley sing songed.
"You heard several."
Hadley waved a hand. "Details. Anyway, your aura is doing something spicy. I reserve the right to intervene."
"My aura needs coffee," Aislinn said. "That is all."
"Fine," Hadley said. "Go in the back, put your stuff away. Then come tell me everything you are pretending is not a big deal."
Aislinn made a face, but she could not help the tiny smile that tugged at her mouth. "You are relentless."
"I am invested."
She slipped through the swinging door to the back hallway and into the small office. It was barely a room, more of a glorified closet with a desk, a filing cabinet, and a couple of hooks on the wall.
She closed the door behind her and let herself lean against it for a second.
The quiet wrapped around her.
Her pulse, which had been pretending to be composed in front of Hadley, finally admitted it was not.
She set her bag on the chair, put her coffee on the corner of the desk, and braced both hands on the worn wood. Her shoulders sagged.
"Okay," she whispered. "This is fine."
Her left hand throbbed again, warm and insistent.
She lifted it slowly.
The bruise looked darker in the harsh office light. It sat on her finger like something intentional, like it belonged there, like it was waiting.
She ran her thumb over it.
The heat that answered was unmistakable.
Her throat tightened.
"You are just a bruise," she told it. "You are not a promise. You are not a sign. You are not anything."
The mark, stubbornly, did not care.
She exhaled, long and shaky, then dropped her hand, grabbed her apron from the hook, and forced herself upright. There was work to do. Customers to serve. Reality to pretend to believe in.
She picked up her coffee, took one more steadying sip, and reached for the doorknob.
Outside, at one of the patio tables that lined the sidewalk, a man sat alone.
He had chosen the middle table, where he could see the entrance and, through the front windows, the rough location of the back hallway if he angled himself just so.
There was no cup in front of him. No plate. No open laptop. Just a phone resting in his hand, the screen tilted slightly toward his body.
On the display, a live video feed showed the small back office inside the shop.
Aislinn, standing at the desk, shoulders hunched. Her lips moving as she spoke to herself. Her fingers lifting to reveal the bruise on her ring finger.
The watcher's fingers tightened around the edge of the phone. It was the only visible reaction.
He zoomed in once, then stilled the image with a light tap. Her profile froze on the screen.
He watched the frozen frame for a quiet, contained moment, then locked the phone, slipped it into his pocket, and rose from the table.
He walked down Main Street without looking back.
Within a minute the patio table looked exactly like any other. Empty. Ordinary. Forgettable.
Aislinn stepped back into the front of the shop, coffee in hand and a smile she hoped looked less strained than it felt.
Hadley glanced up. "You look slightly less like a corpse. Progress."
"Thank you," Aislinn said. "Let us see if we can keep it that way."
Inside, her heart was still pounding.
Outside, the table where someone had been watching her was already empty.