A whisper in the dark

The memory of her voice lingered long after she left.

Elias sat motionless, fingers resting lightly on the smooth ceramic of his empty coffee cup. The world around him moved with its usual rhythm, muffled conversations, the hum of the espresso machine, the occasional chime of the door opening and closing but his focus remained on the space she had occupied. The scent of jasmine and sandalwood still hung faintly in the air, like a ghost refusing to fade. His senses, so finely tuned to the subtle textures of life, couldn’t ignore the residue of her presence.

He replayed every detail in his mind. The tremble in her breath when she answered the barista, the tension in her muscles when she sat too close, the way her heartbeat had betrayed her anxiety. There was no mistaking that she hadn’t just been unsettled. She was afraid. But of what? Of him? No, her fear hadn’t been directed toward him. It was older, deeper, like a crack hidden beneath the surface of polished glass, invisible until the pressure became too much.

Elias leaned back, letting the warmth of the sun press against his face through the window. He tried to dismiss the encounter, tried to tell himself that it was nothing, just a stranger having a bad day. But his instincts wouldn’t let it go. His senses were sharp, honed by years of living in darkness but perceiving the world with far greater clarity than most would ever understand. Fear left traces. And hers was fresh, as if it had been recently carved into her bones. The world had taught Elias long ago that fear wasn’t always rational, but it was always honest. The next morning, Elias returned to the café. The air was different today crisper, cooler, laced with the sharp scent of rain that hadn’t yet fallen. His footsteps were measured, confident as always, tapping softly against the pavement. The cane in his hand wasn’t for guidance but for signaling; he didn’t need it to navigate but had learned that its presence set others at ease. The bell above the café door chimed as he stepped inside, and immediately, the familiar warmth of the place enveloped him. The same low murmur of conversation, the hiss of the espresso machine, and Jonah’s easy laughter behind the counter. Everything was as it should be. Except she wasn’t there. Elias made his way to his usual seat by the window, his senses stretching outward, searching for any trace of her presence, her voice, her scent, even the lingering echoes of her heartbeat in the space where she had sat before. Nothing. It was as if she had never existed at all. “Morning, Elias,” Jonah called out from behind the counter. “The usual?” “Yes,” Elias replied, settling into his chair. “Black. No sugar.” “Living dangerously today,” Jonah joked, setting to work on the order. Elias let the sounds of the café fill the silence inside him. But the absence of her presence was louder than the ambient noise around him. He found himself listening for her without realizing it, attuned to the door, waiting for that subtle shift in the air that had preceded her arrival the day before. But she didn’t come. By the third day, it wasn't a coincidence anymore. He felt it before she spoke a familiar ripple in the atmosphere as the door opened, her footsteps slow, careful not to disturb the fragile equilibrium of the space around her. The faintest tremor in her breath as she approached the counter told Elias everything he needed to know: she had noticed him again. She ordered the same drink her voice steady but carrying the same undercurrent of unease that had caught his attention before. And then, instead of retreating to a distant table as he half-expected, she sat close once again. Why? Elias didn’t turn toward her, but every fiber of his being was aware of her presence. Her heartbeat was the same erratic rhythm, an internal metronome beating too fast, too uneven. And the scent of jasmine and sandalwood surrounded him once more, familiar now, like a song that haunted the edges of his memory. The chair across from him scraped softly as she settled into it. He could sense the wall she had built around herself metaphorical but real to him, like a barrier of tension and uncertainty. Yet, despite the fear that laced her heartbeat, she had chosen proximity over distance. It was a contradiction Elias couldn’t ignore. “Do you… always sit here?” Her voice, delicate but edged with curiosity, broke the silence like a glass shard cracking against stone. Elias turned his head toward her, letting a small smile curve his lips. “Every morning,” he replied, voice smooth and composed. “It’s the quietest spot in the room.” “Oh.” A pause. Her heartbeat quickened an involuntary response. “I didn’t mean to intrude.” “You’re not,” Elias said, leaning forward slightly. “You sound familiar.” There was a sharp intake of breath subtle, but to Elias, it might as well have been a shout. “We were here at the same time a few days ago.” “Yes,” he murmured, the memory still vivid in his mind. “You seemed… unsettled.” Her heartbeat skipped, then accelerated, a clear sign of discomfort. “It’s just… been a rough week.” “The city has a way of doing that,” Elias offered, his voice low, calming, like shelter n the storm of her fear. He didn’t push further, letting her choose whether to continue. For a moment, it seemed like she wouldn’t speak again. Then, quietly, she said, “I’m Lila.”

“Elias.” Another pause. This one stretched, not from discomfort but from uncertainty, a hesitation between two people who didn’t yet know whether the space between them was meant to grow or close. But underneath her words was something raw, something unsaid. When she finally rose to leave, her chair scraped softly against the floor. “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow, Elias.”

“Maybe,” he replied, the smallest flicker of curiosity igniting in his chest. Her footsteps faded, the air returning to its usual stillness. But she had left something behind an echo, a string of curiosity and fear spliced so tightly that Elias couldn’t unravel it just yet. But he would. And when he did, he intended to find out exactly what she was so afraid of.