The Cafe and its secrets
After a sharp scolding from Hayat, the three of us slumped onto the sofa, exchanging silent glances. The weight of her words still hung in the air like heavy perfume.
She had left to visit her husband and daughter — her disapproving gaze the last thing we saw before the door clicked shut. Kennedy had also stepped out for groceries, and knowing her, she'd probably stop by her house before returning.
"Well," Kais muttered, staring at the ceiling. "That went well."
"Yeah," Michael replied, rubbing a hand over his face, "if by well you mean barely surviving."
I checked my watch. Only an hour had passed since breakfast, though it felt like a lifetime. Hayat's scolding had been thorough — arms crossed, voice sharp, eyes blazing with maternal fury. We'd stood there like children caught red-handed, three grown men reduced to guilty silence. It was almost funny.
Almost.
Ironic, really. None of us had mothers, yet here we were, being chastised by a woman who treated us like her own. And strangely, it wasn't unpleasant. There was something grounding about it — something warm, even comforting.
The room fell into a hush after she left. The city hummed faintly beyond the windows, and the only sound was the creak of the old sofa when one of us shifted.
I stretched lazily, turning to Kais with a smirk."Well enough," I said. "I presume it's time for you to start my interview."
He straightened, that familiar gleam returning to his eyes."Right. Let's get started."
The interview began shortly after, pulling me back into the past — to the days following our first meeting.
I had returned to the café.
Maybe it was the coffee. Maybe the atmosphere.Or maybe — just maybe — it was her.
This time, I wasn't going to let our encounter fade into memory. I wanted to know her.
Pushing open the door, I stepped inside. The rich scent of roasted beans filled the air, soft jazz drifting from unseen speakers. My eyes went straight to the counter, heartbeat quickening with anticipation.
And then —Not Emma.
Instead, I was greeted by a familiar, unimpressed face.
"So, you're here again," the barista — not Emma — remarked dryly.
I forced a smile. "Hi there, Anderson."
This was going to be disappointing.
I'd been haunting this café like a man possessed, and every single time, I was met with the same soul-crushing line: 'Emma's out on an urgent matter.'
At this point, I was starting to wonder if she was a barista or a government agent.
Maybe she was running an underground empire. Maybe she made more money than I did. If so, I clearly needed to rethink my career.
"Ardel's Lemonade — A Dollar a Cup."The image of myself peddling lemonade to disinterested pedestrians sent a laugh bubbling up my throat.
Apparently, I laughed out loud, because "Anderson" was now glaring at me like I'd just escaped from a psych ward."What are you laughing at, Audrey?"
I froze."Audrey? My name's Aubrey, thank you very much." I gave him a smile that could've won an award for offended dignity.
He didn't even blink. "Likewise, Aubrey, my name's Emmet, not Anderson."
I stared.He stared back.A solid ten seconds of mutual disappointment.
"Huh," I finally said. "So… Emmet, huh?"
"So… Aubrey, huh?" he shot back, arms crossed.
The sheer pettiness almost made me like him. Almost.
I shoved my hands into my pockets. "Anyway, I'll have the usual."
"You don't have a usual," Emmet deadpanned.
Touché."Then I'll have whatever Emma usually makes."
His expression soured. "Of course you will."
I smirked. "Problem?"
"Yeah," he said. "You."
I leaned against the counter, unbothered. "You wound me, Emmet."
He sighed, clearly over it. "So tell me, Aubrey-who's-not-Audrey, why exactly do you come here every day?"
I blinked. There it was — the million-dollar question.
I could've lied, said I liked the coffee or the cozy vibe, but instead I muttered, "The coffee's decent."
His unimpressed stare said he wasn't buying a single syllable.
"Uh-huh," he said. "You want that coffee to go, or would you rather sit here and keep pretending you're not hopelessly trying to run into Emma?"
I opened my mouth, then closed it again.
Alright. Game on.
I leaned closer, voice dripping with mock sincerity. "No, Emmet, you've got it all wrong. You think I come here for Emma?" I sighed dramatically. "How could you be so mistaken?"
He raised an eyebrow, studying me like a case study in idiocy. Then a slow smirk crept across his face. "Wait… don't tell me." His tone turned sly. "You've got the hots for June, don't you?"
"June?" I blinked. "Who the hell is June?"
Emmet groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Seriously? You don't remember the girl who cracked your nose?"
Ah. Her.
A lovely flashback of pain, shock, and a crunch echoed in my mind. Good times.
I smirked. "Emmet, I'm hurt. You think I'm here for Emma or June?" I lowered my voice, feigning scandal. "Obviously, I'm here for you, Emmet." I even threw in a wink.
For a glorious second, he froze — then burst into laughter. "Oh, yeah?" he said, regaining composure. "You mean you're here for Anderson?"
I groaned. "You're never letting that go, are you?"
"Not a chance, Audrey."
We stared each other down, both refusing to blink. Most men would've surrendered by now. Not me. I wasn't just a musician — I was a performer.
And right now, I was performing for an audience of one.
But beneath the banter, my mind was elsewhere.Because something about this café didn't sit right.
The rhythm was off.
First, there was Emma — always "out on urgent matters." Too frequent to be coincidence.Then Emmet — charming in a mildly homicidal way, but terrible at his job. How did he even get hired?And June — the girl with fists of fury and eyes that scanned every corner like she was waiting for someone to kick down the door.
None of it made sense.
Every employee here moved with the same quiet vigilance — like soldiers pretending to be servers. The air carried tension, subtle but unmistakable.
Suspicious? Absolutely.
And I was going to find out why.
I snapped my fingers. "So, you making that coffee or what?"
Emmet rolled his eyes and turned to the espresso machine. "Sure, Audrey. One terrible coffee, coming right up."
The coffee was, indeed, terrible.
One sip, and I regretted every decision that had led me here.It tasted like burnt regrets and broken promises. Like someone had whispered the word coffee over a cup of despair.
I placed it down gently, forcing a neutral tone."You know, Emmet, I almost respect the sheer dedication it takes to make something this vile."
He smirked. "It's a gift."
"You should return it."
He laughed. I didn't.
But bad coffee wasn't the real problem. The real problem was how strange this place felt.
I'd been coming here for days, and not one person had recognized me. No double takes, no whispers — nothing. Either this café was run by people who lived under a rock, or they were pretending. And I didn't believe in coincidences that neat.
So I did what any rational, mildly paranoid man would do:I had Michael run a background check.
What he found made things worse.
This café wasn't new. It had been shut down for nearly twenty years. Then, three days ago — without any announcement or renovation — it simply reopened.
No grand re-launch, no flyers, no marketing. Just open.
And the employees here didn't seem to care about customers, or money, or much of anything at all. They didn't act like baristas. They acted like… guards.
And their so-called manager — Emma — was never around.
I leaned back, eyes narrowing as I surveyed the café.Emmet leaned lazily against the counter. June stood by the window, posture too sharp, eyes flicking toward every person who entered.
They weren't just employees.
They were watching.
Waiting.
And I was going to find out why.