Shadow in the Café

The doorbell chimed as Amile pushed open the café’s glass door, her backpack slung over one shoulder, phone in hand, and a six-foot divine anomaly trailing behind her like a stormcloud with legs.

“Okay,” she said in a low voice, “don’t touch anything, don’t talk to anyone, and for god’s sake—ironic, I know—don’t look at the espresso machine like it’s a cursed artifact.”

Erevan barely blinked. “That machine hisses and spits steam. It is cursed.”

“It’s Italian,” Amile replied dryly. “It’s supposed to hiss.”

The café, a small cozy nook called Books & Brews, was tucked into a quiet corner of Old city, filled with second-hand books, lazy jazz, and warm smells of cinnamon and ink. Amile worked here part-time, shelving poetry books and mislabeling self-help ones. It paid poorly, but it came with free coffee and a table in the back where she could work on her thesis on lost mythologies.

Erevan stood out like a ripped page in a perfect novel. Even in the oversized hoodie and jeans she made him wear—borrowed from her cousin, no less—he held himself like a lion pretending to be a house cat. His eyes flicked to every corner like he was assessing threats. Or escape routes.

You can sit there,” she gestured toward the table in the far corner. “Do not brood too hard or people will think you’re an art student.”

Erevan narrowed his eyes. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You’ll see.”

By the time her shift started, Amile was already questioning her decision.

Erevan was behaving—mostly. He sat quietly in the corner, his eyes scanning the room like a soldier in enemy territory. Every so often, his gaze would find her behind the counter, and it lingered—not in the way other men stared—but as if he were trying to decode her, unearth her from memory.

She tried not to let it fluster her.

Emphasis on tried.

But when she passed his table an hour later and caught him reading one of her myth books upside-down, she sighed. “You’re not exactly blending in.”

“I am observing your world,” he said calmly.

“You look like you’re trying to hex it.”

He looked thoughtful. “Could I?

No.”

“Not even a small one?”

“No.”

Around noon, the café filled with its usual regulars—an elderly english poet with sad eyes, a couple arguing in whispers, and that one guy who always ordered a cappuccino and never tipped.

Erevan noticed something she didn’t.

In the far corner, near the fiction aisle, the shadows were moving.

They rippled subtly, like a reflection on water—then stretched unnaturally, curling toward the floor like fingers reaching for something unseen.

Erevan stood abruptly.

Amile noticed and rushed over. “What’s wrong?”

“Something’s here,” he said quietly.

“What kind of something?”

He didn't answer. Instead, he walked straight toward the corner, stepping around chairs, ignoring confused stares from customers. Amile followed, her heart thudding.

The moment they reached the fiction shelf, Erevan's eyes darkened.

In the space between two towering bookshelves, a small patch of unnatural darkness pulsed softly. It didn’t belong. It flickered like a void trying to hold form.

Amile felt it too.

Cold. Still. Hungry.

Step back,” Erevan said, placing a hand protectively in front of her.

He lifted his other hand, fingers splayed.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

Then, a shimmer of black curled from his palm—weak and unsteady, like the last breath of a dying fire.

The shadow in the corner shivered.

The pulse of it faltered.

Then it vanished.

Erevan staggered slightly.

“Are you okay?” Amile asked, grabbing his arm.

He looked down at his hand, surprised. “My power... responded.”