Chapter 1
A Normal Evening… Until It Wasn’t
The bell above the café door rang just as Areum was locking the register.
She froze.
For a split second, she considered pretending she hadn’t heard it. Considered turning off the lights and disappearing into the back room. It had been a long day—classes in the morning, nonstop customers since noon, aching feet, an empty stomach, and a headache that had been pulsing behind her eyes for hours.
She exhaled slowly and turned around.
The café was supposed to be closed.
A man stood near the entrance, hoodie pulled low over his face, hands tucked into his pockets like he was trying to make himself smaller. The night air followed him in, cold and sharp, brushing past Areum’s skin.
She forced a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
“Good evening, sir,” she said softly, exhaustion slipping into her tone despite her effort. “What would you like to order?”
The man lifted his head just enough to look at her.
“One iced americano,” he said.
His voice was quiet—almost fragile. The kind of voice you’d miss if you weren’t paying attention.
Areum nodded and turned toward the register, fingers moving automatically as she typed in the order. Something about him tugged at her attention, though. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, her brain working through memories she hadn’t known she’d stored.
And then it clicked.
Carson.
The mysterious guy from her university.
No one really knew him. He kept to himself, always sitting at the back of lecture halls, always alone. People whispered about how he spent most of his time in detention yet somehow still ranked at the top of his class. Professors talked about him with a mix of confusion and quiet awe.
Carson Watson. That was all anyone knew.
He took his receipt and walked to the corner-most booth, sitting with his back to the wall, eyes fixed on the dark sky outside the café window as if he were waiting for something—or someone.
Areum prepared the drink quickly. The café felt different with him inside. Quieter. Colder.
When she placed the iced americano in front of him, her fingers brushed his hand.
A sharp chill ran up her arm.
She flinched before she could stop herself.
Carson didn’t react. Didn’t even look at her. Just murmured a soft, “Thank you.”
Areum stepped back, rubbing her hands together, telling herself it was nothing more than the late-night cold finally settling in.
By the time he finished his drink, the café clock read 8:30 PM.
Carson stood, nodded once in her direction, and left without another word.
The bell rang again.
Then silence.
---
It was 11:30 PM when Areum finally reached her apartment.
The city outside was unusually quiet, traffic reduced to a distant hum. She kicked off her shoes and shrugged out of her coat, exhaustion weighing on her like a physical thing.
Something crumpled in her pocket.
She frowned, pulling it out.
A small, folded piece of paper.
She didn’t recognize the handwriting—but the name at the bottom made her breath hitch.
Thanks for the coffee tonight, Areum.
The best I’ll ever have.
— Carson
Her heart skipped.
She was sure he hadn’t been close enough to slip it into her pocket. She would have noticed. Wouldn’t she?
Areum placed the note on her desk, letting out a small, uncertain laugh.
“Creepy,” she muttered to herself. “But… kind.”
Her phone buzzed.
A message from a friend. A news link.
She opened it.
The headline burned itself into her vision.
“19-year-old university student Carson Watson found dead in a car accident at 8:30 PM near Butterbean Café.”
The phone slipped from her hand and hit the floor, cracking on impact.
Her knees gave out, and she collapsed onto the edge of the bed, her fingers gripping the sheets so tightly her knuckles turned white.
“No,” she whispered. “That’s not possible.”
The time.
The name.
The café.
Her breath came out shaky as her gaze drifted back to the note on her desk.
8:30 PM.
A sound tore out of her throat—half sob, half scream—as the room seemed to tilt around her.
And somewhere in the silence of the night, something screamed back.
Some stories don’t need answers. Only echoes.
