Chapter 1
The 9:00a.m. rush was over, leaving Mylo, a blurry man with a coffee-stained apron. To starehis reflection in the steel espresso machine. The silence was so heavy, he could feel it. He wiped down the counter a third time, the rag leaving behind clean, citrus-scented streaks. He hated the smell of the citrus cleaner, mixed with the stale bagels and croissants next to the coffee machine. On the radio, a song he hated was playing. Just another Tuesday. He looked at the empty seat near the window, the one Val always took, and wondered if he'd stand him up today. He better not. “I need someone to call me a moron before I clock out.” He thought to himself, watching the clock anxiously. He didn’t just want Val to call him a moron, he needed it.
Mylo stood there confused, he had never thought something like that before. Val walked inevery day, to call him a moron. As Mylo scrubbed a stain off the counter something felt different. He wanted Val to call him a moron; he missed his affectionate teasing. Val’s “hey moron” was the only thing that made Tuesday feel like anything other than an endless loop.
The bell on the door rang as the door opened. “Hey Moron.” Val’s voice usually cut through the hum of the café like a blade, but today it sounded blunt… unsharpened. He trudged in, leaving a trail of thick sludge across the floor Mylo just scrubbed.
Mylo didn’t groan when he looked at the sludge. He just exhaled; a knot in his chest loosening at the sound of the insult. “you’relate.” Said Mylo, reaching for a small cup. “I was about to start calling the hospitals to see if you had tripped over your own ego.”
Val didn’t fire back; not even a smirk. He slumped into his usual stool, his hand disappearing in the pocket of his purple hoodie. He looked smaller than he normally did. “Val?” Mylo leaned on the counter, trying to catch his gaze. “the coffee’s going to get a film on it.”
“I’m not thirsty.” Val muttered, his voice was dryer than sandpaper. Mylo frowned.“you’re always thirsty, its 9:15. This is the part where you tell me I’m a horrible barista and drink the whole thing in three sips.” Val’s shoulders hitched up towards his ears. he looked like he was trying to fold himself into a cardboard box.“what’s the matter?” Mylo asked, he tried to keep his voice casual, but the bluntness came through. “did your old man have another ‘episode’ last night?Are you heading for the woods this weekend?”
Val finally looked at him. Really looked at him, his red hair contrasted against his soft green eyes. A pale sage Mylo had never seen before. For a second, it felt like the silence in the café was vibrating. Val’s mouth opened, then closed. Hisfingers twitched against the seams of his pocket. He looked like he wanted to scream, or apologize. “Val, talk to me. You’re acting weird.” Mylo pleaded,reaching for Val’s hand. Val shuddered and pulled his hand away. “I cant” Val whispered. It wasn’t an answer; it was a confession.
“cant what?”Mylo asked
But Val was already moving. He stood up so fast the stool screeched against the floor.“Val, wait—your coffee! You forgot your—” before Mylo could finish, Val was out the door. He didn’t just walk; he launched himself into the rain, his silhouette blurring against the gray meadowbrook mist.
Mylo staredat the door, then down at the counter. Next to the cooling coffee sat Val’s phone, the screen lighting up with a missed call from ‘dad’. The foam on the drink was already beginning to deflate, dying out in a series of tiny, popping sounds.
the transition from the citrus-scented warmth of the café tothe October air was like hitting a wall of glass. It was only October, but Meadowbrook was already suffocating under an early freeze. Mylo didn’t have a coat—just his thin shirt and his coffee-stained apron he’d forgotten to strip off. The air didn’t just feel cold; it felt sharp, piercing his lungs with every frantic breath as he lunged into the morning crowd.
“Val! wait!”
His voice was swallowed by the 9:00 a.m. bustle. He shovedthrough a river shouting “excuse me!” and “watch out!” until his throat felt raw. He nearly sent a toddler flying near a street vendor’s cart. For a split second, the scent of cinnamon rolls and thick, steaming hot chocolate hit him, making his stomach cramp with a sudden, misplaced hunger. It was a taunting smell—warmth and safety—while he was out here chasing a ghost in the frost.
He stopped at the corner, his chest heaving. His sides burned with a ‘stitched lung’ that jagged pain that makes you want to double over. He looked down; his checkered vans were never meant for icy concrete.They were flat-soled and useless.
Why is he doing this? This isn’t funny anymore.
He caught a flash of purple fabric turning towards the alleyways on Mulberry Lane. Mylo forced his legs to move again, his shoes sliding dangerously against the icy concrete. He saw him. Val was twenty feet away, his silhouette blurring against the gray background of the town.
