Chapter 1
Elijah:
Elijah waited outside his office for the bus, with the umbrella that had a tiny hole in the centre over his head, dripping water on his shoulder every now and then. His journal had been carefully wrapped in a waterproof bag, as he took absolutely no risks of getting it wet. He had been handed this journal by his dad, and even though he could never make sense of the text inside, he would always carry it wherever he went.
As the bus arrived, Elijah stepped inside, passed a smile to the driver and went to sit on the seat next to the window. He put on his headphones, and started looking outside. The same gloomy weather covered the city, the people all busy with their routines and the raindrops splattering on the wet tarmac below. As the bus rolled, he fell into a slumber and was awoken by the sudden jolt as the bus halted on the next stop. He stepped onto the footpath and entered the cobblestone street across the bus stop. The cafe he would visit almost everyday, was located in an old narrow alleyway and even though there was nothing extraordinary about the place, he felt drawn to the quietness and the sandos the cafe had to offer.
The alleyway was dimly lit by flickering tungsten lamps and as Elijah walked through, his oxfords clacked against the cobblestone, echoing in the quietness, and splashed water on his brown pants, making him hate the monsoon even more. The bell chimed as he entered the cafe and greeted the waiter with a nod. “The usual,” he said and seated himself on the seat farthest from the entrance, where there was barely any commotion. He loved to journal without any interruption and that spot allowed him to get lost in his thoughts for as long as he wanted. Having been a regular customer for over a couple of years now, the staff too knew the preferences of Elijah.
Elijah took the journal out and set it on the table alongside his notebook that he used to write about his day as well as any clues he could find in his old journal. He was about to finish reading the journal for the second time, and was still barely able to understand even the simplest of events mentioned inside.
As his mushroom sando and hazelnut coffee arrived, Elijah noticed an unwonted clicking of keys on the table across. He tried tuning out, but the girl with her laptop had now started tapping her nails repeatedly on the metal surface of her laptop. Unable to focus, he finished his meal, and irritated, he made an early exit from the cafe.
Rosie:
Not to cleave to a person, an identity, or perhaps a small fragment of hope and desire might be one of the most necessary yet vile acts one might ever commit. To perform an act, rightfully so, and to perform it on time draws a wide difference when it comes to deciphering its meaning.
Independence. Lead. Command.
At first glance, they seem to call out the same constitution. But there’s a salient difference. And often, we spend our lives trying to find the purpose of our existence, to use the power resting in our hands, to do good or prevent evil, or maybe otherwise. In haste of all this, what we might forget is how significant an act, a bond, or perhaps a plan is when you are in dire need of it.
If you ask a corrupt leader why he’s trying to improve his image after committing horrible acts, he probably would say he’s trying to undo what’s been done. But ask yourself this.
Is it better to correct something after it has caused better or worse, or to let it go completely and let time hold one responsible for it?
Click. Click. Click.
Her eyes opened wide at the surprise that stood before her. The waitress clutched the pen in her hand, her thumb fixated on the push button. She heard it once more. Slowly, she lifted her face where the waitress stood, her hands on the table. It almost seemed demanding, as if she wanted to know a secret that her fragile heart held.
A moment passed, and then finally she spoke. “Ma’am, would you like to order your usual?”, her voice fading into the noisy chatter from the group sitting nearby.
Rosie sighed, finally returning to her senses. She nodded at her waitress and passed her a comforting smile, as if she was making up for her rude behaviour earlier. The waitress nodded back and returned towards the counter.
Rosie felt embarrassed about what she had done. Not of the past, at least not at the moment, but how ignorant she had been, lost in her own thoughts so vastly that she could not notice the people who surrounded her. She often found herself lost in the maze of her own thoughts. Small strands of hair were neatly assembled around her face, and the rest of her hair was left loose around the back. Unlike her eyes, as warm as a hazelnut dream, her hair was lush black. She’d inherited it from her mother, and she’d taken it from her mother. And she was proud. Proud that she carried the traces of those who came before her, those who didn’t live a long life, yet their identity was safe with her.
The café felt warmer now, as winter had just approached, bringing strong gusts of wind that spread a brief chill. Through the large panel of the window, she could almost read the entire history of this town, all that had succumbed here. Small pieces of bricks were found almost everywhere.
Streets. Buildings. Residencies.
Bricks of all the odd shapes. Oval, curved, square, rectangle, and whatever existed as remnants of what the factory produced. From where the sun rose, the bricks were in a range of lighter red and oranges, creating a feeling of freshness. Further from the sunlight were tones of deeper brown and purple, like bruises left behind by time. The street, however, had a larger amount of clinkers, or what you’d call a burnt brick. Heat still radiated from the stones, as if the kiln’s breath lingered long after the workers had gone. The city’s landscape was breathtaking, enough to make one forget the tragedies that once took place here, like wounds covered permanently.
Her drink arrived with a soft clank against the metal table, the sound sharp enough to pull her attention back from the window. Steam curled lazily from the latte, warming the air between her and the glass, blurring the outside world even more.
Rosie slid her laptop toward her, nudging the hot cup to the side with the back of her hand. The hinge gave its usual offended squeak, somewhere between a mouse and a cry for help. She made a mental note, again, to get it fixed.
The screen flickered to life, replacing its temporary blankness with the pyramids of Giza, the default wallpaper she still hadn’t bothered to change. She typed her password quickly, fingers still chilled from the walk in, and opened a new entry.
16 March.
That’s all she could come up with. Her mind was drifting away, like a sailboat no longer tethered. That’s why she always ended up here, at this café. It felt different, as if one day she’d discover a new truth, or maybe she’d try settling with the one she already knew. But that wasn’t easy, and she was in no rush either.
Mr Abraham, her psychology lecturer, guided her that at times she would need to face the truth rather than hide beneath it. To lead and command her mind, she needed to control her thoughts. He was the one who advised her to journal. It took a lot of convincing for her to start jotting something down, but there was something unique about this café, how it would always present a new thought to ponder upon.
Without a second thought, she began typing.
Letters to words. Words to sentences. Thoughts that may be rogue, but at least they belonged solely to her.
Now and then, she’d take a sip of the drink. Each gulp almost held an invincible power that opened a new gateway. This was her haven, and time passed unnoticeably. After a continuous thirty minutes of jotting down her thoughts, she finally took a deep breath and raised her hand to ask the waitress for the bill.
But contrary to her expectations, she noticed a tall figure, a man almost in his mid-twenties, carrying a shocked, or what you’d call a bothered expression on his face. She’d never seen him before around here. The man slowly turned his face back to what he was busy with. She wondered what it was that caught his attention.
Soon enough, the waitress returned, the bill clasped strongly in her hands. Rosie paid the bill, picked a tissue from the box, and scoured her hands. Then, she carefully gathered her belongings and stood up, leaving the café. If she followed the street towards the east, she’d get home in about ten minutes. As she began walking, the rumbling brick dust clung to her boots, soft as ash but sharp enough to scrape her palms if she touched a shard. Seconds turned into minutes, and soon she found herself unlocking the door of her apartment. With a faint click, the doorknob turned, and the door flew wide open. She knew that there was no escape anymore. She could only bury herself under the weight of work to distract her mind.
Today was no different than any other day.
