The clock on the wall had a broken second hand that clicked every time it struggled to pass the nine. It was a nagging sound that echoed in the silence of words.
I was leaning against the counter, staring at a stubborn brown ring of coffee on the espresso machine. I'd already wiped it twice, but the stain was winning, burnt into the silver metal by a day of back-to-back rushes.
I was exhausted—the kind of tired that makes my eyes heavy and makes every movement feel like I'm pulling my limbs through deep water.
Though this shift of my work I usually liked. The quiet. The absence of people asking for "extra hot" lattes while staring at their phones.
I reached over and flipped the 'Open' sign to 'Closed,' the plastic thud against the glass sounding louder than it should have. Outside, Oakhaven was starting to settle. The street was quiet, the occasional hiss of a car driving over wet pavement was absent and the flickering neon source of the laundromat board across the way was only source of light for this dark night.
I was about to kill the main lights when the bell on the door gave a weak, tired jingle.
I didn't even look up. I just let out a heavy sigh, my shoulders dropping. "Closed. Door's locked."
"It wasn't locked," a voice said.
It was a woman's voice—mid-twenties, a tired, husky rasp that caught in the back of her throat like she'd been breathing in cold mist.
I looked up. She was wearing a silver puffer jacket that looked three sizes too big for her, her hands shoved into her pockets. She had her hood up, shadows masking her face, and she looked like she'd just walked five miles through the freezing drizzle. She looked small, pale, and entirely out of place.
"My bad. I forgot to turn the bolt," I said, wiping my hands on my stained apron. "But yeah, the registers are shut down. Machines are off. I'm done for the night."
"I don't want a drink," she said. She looked around the shop, which was mostly dark except for the warm, amber glow over the counter. She looked at the empty stools like they were the most comfortable things she'd ever seen. "Is it okay if I just sit for a second? It's freezing out there, and I think I've been walking in circles for twenty minutes."
I hesitated. I wanted to go home; for a few seconds, I stared aimlessly at the ceiling. But she looked like she was about to fall over. "Five minutes," I said, nodding toward the stools. "I have to finish the floors anyway."
"Thanks," she muttered. She slumped onto a stool and let out a long, shaky breath that seemed to deflate her entire body. She pulled a tablet out from under her jacket and set it on the counter, but she didn't turn it on. She just stared at the blank, black screen as if waiting for it to tell her what to do next.
I grabbed the mop bucket from the back. The water was lukewarm and smelled strongly of lemon-scented chemicals. I started working on the area near the door, the slop-slop of the water and the rhythmic swish-thud of the mop filling the silence.
"Is it your shop?" she said after a minute, her voice cutting through the white noise of the cleaning.
I stopped for a second, leaning my weight on the mop handle. "I work here."
"You have beautiful eyes," she said, her voice dropping to a low, husky vibration. She was staring straight into me, searching for a ghost she'd lost. "They remind me of someone I used to know."
"I get that a lot. Usually right before someone asks for a free refill. . But that's a little creepy for a Tuesday night, don't you think?"
She rolled her eyes, the motion making her oversized hood slip back just a fraction. "Ugh, don't flatter yourself, Coffee Boy. I said they remind me of someone, not that I'm taking you home to meet my mom."
"Coffee Boy'? That's original," I muttered, shaking my head. "Look, I'm barely 'meet-my-friend' material, so let's just leave 'meet-your-mom' out of the conversation entirely. Start counting down your seconds, because this little hang-out session is over."
"Take it easy, man," she said, her voice dripping with mock-pity. "Seriously. You look like you're about to have a stroke over a dirty floor. Breathe, Coffee Boy. Breathe."
I stopped mid-swipe. I looked up at her, my eyebrows furrowing in a look of genuine, concern—the kind you give someone who might be missing a few screws. I stared at her for a beat, like I was trying to figure out if she'd walked into the wrong lane.
"Jenna," she repeated, nodding to herself as if I was being slow. "That's my name."
"Oh, yeah good for you" I said, a dry, flat sound.
"And you are?" she prodded, still watching me.
I sighed, annoyance pilling inside my chest. "It's Leo."
I moved to the far side of the shop, the mop head leaving long, shimmering trails of grey water across the floor. I kept my eyes on the wall clock, watching that broken second hand twitching at the nine.
Jenna didn't move. She had folded her arms on the mahogany bar and tucked her head into them, finally letting the exhaustion win. For a minute, the only sound was her heavy breathing.
Across the street, the flickering neon of the laundromat board gave one final, violent buzz before it went dark, leaving the night in a heavy gloom.
"Seems like time is over," she said, though she made no move to stand up. She watched me with a smirk, clearly enjoying the way I was white-knuckling the mop handle. "Well... it was actually nice talking to you, Leo. Even if you spent the whole time wishing I'd evaporate."
She shrugged, a loose, carefree motion as if she were shaking off my grumpy attitude like it was nothing. She knew she was being a nuisance, and she wasn't sorry about it. In fact, she seemed to find my annoyance the most entertaining part of her night.
"Don't miss me too much when I'm gone," she added, her voice a husky, teasing lilt.
I didn't roll my eyes, but it was a close call. "The silence will be devastating, Jenna. Truly."
"Liars go to hell, Coffee Boy," she chirped, finally sliding off the stool with a slow, deliberate grace that was designed to waste just a few more of my seconds.
"Hold on," I said, my voice dropping into a smoother, more accommodating tone as I moved toward the machine. "Since you've been such a delightful pain in my neck, let me give you something for the walk. On the house. An apology for being such a jerk.'"
Behind the tall espresso machine, my hands moved with a surgical rhythm that had nothing to do with coffee. I reached into the hidden compartment of my bag and pulled out a small, unmarked amber vial. I didn't need to measure; I knew the dosage by heart. Two white tablets. Fast-acting. Tasteless.
I crushed them into a fine powder with the back of a metal spoon, the sound masked by the sudden, violent hiss of the steam wand. I swirled the powder into the bottom of the cup, then drowned it in rich, velvety espresso and a thick cloud of foam.
"Here," I said, sliding the cup across the wood.
She took it, her fingers brushing mine—they were ice cold. She took a long, grateful sip, a small mustache of foam clinging to her lip as she beamed at me. "Actually tastes like something. Thanks, Leo. Try not to miss me too much."
"Get home safe, Jenna," I said, my voice flat.
I stood there, arms crossed, watching through the glass as she stepped out into the mist. I waited until her silver jacket was just a blur in the dark, and then I reached for the switch.
With a single flick, I killed the lights, plunging the shop into total, silent darkness.
The morning shift was moving like it always did. The grinders were screaming, the steam wands were hissing, and the actual employees were scrambling to keep up with the 8:00 AM rush. Everything was normal.
In the corner of the shop, the small TV was tuned to the local news. A man standing by the sugar and cream station suddenly froze. He was a fan, the kind who had notifications turned on for every one of his idol posts. He stared at the screen, his face turning a sickly shade of white.
"No," he whispered. Then he lost it. "No, no way!"
The shop went quiet as he turned toward the crowd, his hands shaking so hard his coffee splashed onto the floor.
"SHE'S GONE!" he screamed, his voice cracking with pure disbelief. "JENNA VANCE WAS ABDUCTED! SHE'S GONE!"
Every head turned toward the flickering TV mounted in the corner.
The red banner across the bottom of the screen was screaming in all caps: GLOBAL ICON JENNA VANCE ABDUCTED.
He pointed a shaking finger at the screen as the news anchor's voice turned grim.
"Authorities are now confirming that Jenna Vance has vanished," the anchor said. "It is being assumed that the global icon was abducted shortly after midnight. Police have found no trace of her current loaction"
"Sources close to the star say the alarm was raised early this morning when Vance's manager entered her hotel suite to find it empty," the anchor reported, her face grim. "The last digital footprint was a social media post at 11:45 PM. After that, no calls, no check-ins."
The door to the cafe swung open, but it wasn't a customer. A man in a sharp grey suit stepped in, flashing a badge. A detective. He didn't look like he'd slept.
"Who was working the midnight shift here?" the detective asked, his voice cutting through the fan's hysterical sobbing. "We have a ping on Vance's GPS that places her right at this counter at 12:15 AM."
The manager shook his head, looking at the detective with a flat, bored expression. "This shop was closed shortly after 10:00 PM. I locked the doors myself. The lights were off all night."
The detective looked around the hollow, quiet shop, his eyes lingering on the floor. It was spotless. Then he looked at the espresso machine, tracing the silver metal where the stubborn coffee stain was gone, scrubbed away.
"Guess she just vanished into thin air, then," the detective muttered, turning toward the door.
He missed the only thing that mattered: a single, silver thread from a puffer jacket caught in the teeth of the floor drain, right beneath the mop bucket.