“If you make a noise like that one more time, I’m selling you to a thrift store,” I said as I pressed the steam button for the third time.
The machine hissed for a long moment, produced a little milk foam, then shut off with the attitude of someone who had just won a court case.
I stared at it.
“Don’t get cocky. You’re still on installments.”
Outside, rain fell lightly on Kenanga Street. The wall clock above the pastry rack showed 11:06 p.m. Drizzle Coffee Shop had been closed for an hour, at least according to the sign on the door. But I still had to wash three cups, count the change, and convince the old refrigerator that its rattling did not mean it was about to abandon us all.
The coffee shop was small. There were only eight tables, one wide window, and a yellow light that was too warm to replace, even though its wiring occasionally had other opinions. We didn’t have many customers, either. There were students who liked working on assignments until nearly morning, a mother who always ordered ginger tea without the ginger, and Mr. Hadi, the security guard from the neighboring building, who came every afternoon to complain about young people.
I liked all of them.
Even the coffee machine.
A little.
The second hand moved to seven.
The doorbell rang.
I looked up, already prepared to say that the coffee shop was closed, then forgot the words.
The man who entered looked as though he had walked out of an old photograph. He wore a long black coat, far too neat for a rainy night and far too old-fashioned for 2026. His hair was black, combed straight back without a single strand falling onto his forehead. His face was pale—not sickly pale, but pale like a book that had been kept in a drawer for too long.
He closed his umbrella carefully.
The umbrella wasn’t wet.
I stared at it for a few seconds.
“Good evening,” he said.
His voice was low and calm. His diction was strange, too—not the accent of any particular region, but more as if he chose each word from a very old dictionary.
“Good evening,” I replied. “The coffee shop is closed.”
He looked at the wall clock.
“11:07 p.m.”
“Yes. That’s usually still considered nighttime, but my coffee shop closes at ten.”
“I know.”
“If you know that, why did you come in?”
He looked at me. His eyes were gray, and for some reason they made the room feel a little quieter.
“Because I come every night.”
I turned toward the door, making sure there wasn’t a hidden camera or some prank show being filmed. There was nothing but the rain, the gleaming sidewalk, and the drugstore lights across the street.
“This is the first night I’ve seen you.”
“For you.”
That did not help.
He walked toward Table Seven. It sat in the corner by the window, beneath the softest light. There was no sign saying it was reserved. I had no particular reason for giving it the number seven, other than the fact that tables one through six had been there since the previous owner, and number eight had somehow disappeared when the coffee shop was renovated.
The man sat down, placed an old book on the table, and folded his hands.
“May I order?”
I took a small notepad from my apron pocket.
“If it’s only one drink and you don’t intend to kill me, sure.”
“I have never killed a coffee shop owner.”
I stopped writing.
He seemed to realize the problem with that sentence a moment too late.
“...I mean, not yet,” he added.
“Wow. Your honesty gets high marks, but your delivery needs work.”
“Black coffee. No sugar.”
“Of course. What size?”
“As usual.”
“You’ve never been here before.”
“Not to this coffee shop with you.”
I stared at him a little longer. He stared back with a face as calm as the surface of a lake.
“All right,” I said. “One black coffee, no sugar.”
Black coffee was the easiest drink to make. Hot water, coffee grounds, and a little patience. I poured it into a white cup decorated with a small cloud that had begun to fade, then carried it over to Table Seven.
The man reached for the cup.
His shadow remained seated.
His hand moved, but the shadow on the floor did not.
I froze.
He raised the cup to his lips. The shadow’s hands were still folded on the table.
Maybe I was tired. Maybe the light was broken. Maybe I’d simply drunk coffee too often after midnight and my brain had already submitted its resignation.
“What is your name?” he asked.
I blinked. “What?”
“Your name.”
“Aluna.”
He repeated it slowly. “Aluna.”
Strange. My name sounded different when it came from his mouth, as though it had just been written in a place I had never visited.
“And you?”
He touched the cover of the old book without opening it.
“Raka.”
“Just Raka?”
“For tonight.”
“Does your name have a schedule?”
“More or less.”
I pulled out a chair at the cashier’s counter, but didn’t actually sit down. My eyes kept returning to that delayed shadow. Raka drank his coffee little by little. He never looked at a phone, made no sound when he swallowed, and didn’t seem bothered by the old music playing through the speakers.
After ten minutes, he set down the cup.
“It tastes different,” he said.
“Better?”
“Different.”
“Is that a new way of saying it’s bad?”
“No. This coffee is good.”
I didn’t know why such a simple compliment made me want to smile.
Raka stood. His shadow lagged a fraction of a second behind, then moved along with him.
He picked up the old book and walked to the door.
“Are you coming back tomorrow?” I asked before I could stop myself.
He paused.
“11:07 p.m.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
For the first time, the corner of his mouth moved slightly.
“If the coffee shop is still open.”
“If you pay, I’ll consider it.”
“I always pay.”
He pulled several coins from his coat pocket. They were dull silver, stamped with a symbol I didn’t recognize.
I sighed. “What century do you think this coffee shop is from? Coins like these haven’t been useful in ages.”
Raka stared at the coins, looking genuinely confused.
“Since when?”
“For a long time.”
I took out my phone, then showed him how to pay using the code on the table. “You can use this.”
He looked at the code as though he were studying a demon-summoning symbol.
“What device is that?”
“A phone.”
“I did not bring one.”
“Yes, I can see that.”
I let out a long sigh and crossed my arms.
“Come back tomorrow with valid money and a more reasonable explanation.”
He opened the door. Rainy air entered with the scent of wet earth.
“A reasonable explanation,” he said, “is usually untrue.”
Then he left.
I stood between the cashier’s counter and Table Seven, listening as his footsteps faded along the sidewalk. Outside, there were no shoeprints in the puddles.
On the table, the empty coffee cup was still giving off a thin wisp of steam.
I approached to clear it away.
The old book was gone.
But on the surface of Table Seven, exactly where the book had been placed, there remained a small circle of light—warm, golden, and pulsing faintly like a heartbeat.
The wall clock showed 11:18 p.m.
For the first time since opening this coffee shop, I hoped the next night would come sooner.