The next morning began just like any other.
Steam drifted from fresh coffee pots. The scent of cardamom and cinnamon hung in the air. Arin wiped down the countertop with methodical care, humming a tune only he seemed to know. The same faces passed through the door. The same smiles. The same soft, golden light spilling through the stained glass windows.
And yet, something was… slightly off.
He couldn't stop thinking about the man with the satchel — the way he paused, looked around like he knew something had shifted, and walked out before the day could pull him into its rhythm. Arin had replayed that moment dozens of times in his mind.
He hadn't written anything new in the notebook since underlining equation.
He needed a sign.
The bell chimed.
Arin looked up, expecting to see the baker's wife or the young teacher who always ordered lemon tea. But instead, someone unfamiliar stepped in — a girl.
Not just unfamiliar to the café. Unfamiliar to the town.
She moved with a quiet purpose, her eyes scanning the room like she was solving a puzzle she'd only just remembered existed. A brown satchel hung from her shoulder, worn at the edges. Her hair was short and dark, tucked behind her ears, and she wore a paint-streaked jacket that didn't match the clean, sleepy elegance of Virell.
She walked straight to the window seat — the one the old couple usually occupied — and sat.
Arin's breath caught. Not from surprise, exactly. But something deeper. The rhythm had changed again.
He turned toward the kitchen, but peeked at his notebook one more time and wrote:
9:02 AM — Unknown variable enters pattern. Window seat. No hesitation.
Behind him, the espresso machine hissed.
He gathered his thoughts, then walked over, towel tucked in his apron.
"Good morning," he said. "First time here?"
She looked up. Her eyes were quiet but alert — the kind that noticed more than they let on.
"Yeah," she said. "Passing through. I think."
"You think?"
She smiled faintly. "It's complicated."
Arin chuckled softly, motioning to the menu board above. "What can I get started for you?"
She scanned it quickly. "Café au lait. And… if you have something sweet. Something that goes with thoughts."
He tilted his head, curious. "Thoughts?"
"You know," she said, glancing out the window, "the kind that won't leave you alone."
He nodded, already reaching for a blueberry scone he'd set aside that morning — not for anyone in particular, but as if he'd known someone would need it.
She noticed.
"You saved that one."
"I guess I did," he replied, placing it on a plate. "It felt like it had a destination."
When he returned with her order, she'd already pulled a small sketchbook from her bag. It was open to a blank page.
"I'm Arin," he said, placing her coffee and scone in front of her.
She looked up again, then gave a slow, warm nod.
"Elen."
Her name landed softly, like a page turning in the middle of a book. Arin didn't say anything more. He just smiled — not because he meant to, but because it felt like another small pattern had begun to form.