Prologue
Click. Click. Click.
The sound of my keyboard is the only rhythm in this little corner of the café, punctuated now and then by the slurp of lukewarm coffee from a chipped mug.
Outside, it’s raining.
Not the romantic, kiss-me kind of rain, but the steady, grey sort that makes everything feel like a paused documentary. Blurred windows. Hooded figures. Puddles swallowing their own ripples.
Inside, the world moves differently.
A barista hums a sad indie song under her breath. A couple in the corner argue in whispers, their hands doing more talking than their mouths. Someone’s baby is crying at a table too close to the exit. I have no idea who brought a baby into a café with no changing table, but here we are.
And me?
I’m in my usual seat by the fake plant and the buzzing wall socket that only works if you angle the charger just right.
Using the café’s free Wi-Fi like a respectful parasite. Typing like I’m getting paid for it, even though most days I’m not. Freelancer life.
Hi.
My name is Eliza Hartwell.
Age: 33.
Profession: Occasionally paid writer, professional people-watcher, full-time avoider of traditional employment.
But this isn’t my story.
At least, not yet.
This is the story of the people around me.
Strangers, drifters, liars, lovers. Some passing through. Some staying too long. Some trying too hard not to be seen, and others wishing someone or anyone would just look up and notice them.
The world is always moving forward, whether you notice it or not. Life goes on.
People move on.
Doesn’t matter if you take part in it or if you’re just a spectator.
Lucky for you, I’m very good at watching.
So… shall we begin?
