I thought I was writing fiction.
I didn't know I was rewriting fate.
I didn't mean to free Death.
✦ ✦ ✦
Perfè Coffee Shop
The afternoon light slanted through the tall glass windows of Perfè Coffee Shop, casting long shadows across the tiled floor. The air smelled of roasted beans and burnt sugar, thick and cloying after hours of nonstop work.
"A cup of coffee. No sugar."
Eleanor didn't look up immediately. Her hands were already moving, muscle memory taking over as she reached for a clean cup. The register beeped softly as she rang up the order. It was the last customer of the day—thankfully.
"Yes, sir," she said, her voice steady despite the ache creeping into her shoulders.
She worked quickly, pouring the coffee with practiced care. Her wrist trembled slightly from fatigue, but she steadied herself before handing the cup over.
"It's a pleasure," she said, forcing a polite smile.
The customer smiled back, took the cup, and walked out without another word.
The bell above the door chimed, then fell silent.
Eleanor exhaled.
She reached for the knot of her apron, fingers already loosening the fabric when the door opened again.
Her shoulders stiffened.
Mr. Chris walked in.
He was short, round in the middle, with a permanent scowl etched into his face. His potbelly strained against his shirt, and his eyes—small and sharp—swept across the shop as if searching for something to criticize. He was the kind of man who smiled only when someone else was uncomfortable.
The owner of Perfè Coffee Shop.
"Done for the day?" he asked.
Eleanor pulled off her apron and folded it neatly. "Yes."
She grabbed her small backpack from beneath the counter and slung it over her shoulder. Instead of heading for the door, she moved to the corner near the storage shelves and waited.
Mr. Chris noticed.
"What are you waiting for?" he asked, wiping his hands on a napkin.
"It's the end of the month," Eleanor said carefully.
"So?" He shrugged, already turning away.
"My salary," she replied, her voice quiet but firm.
Mr. Chris paused.
"Oh." He nodded, digging into his pocket. After a moment, he pulled out a few crumpled bills and held them out to her.
Eleanor stepped forward and took the money. Her fingers trembled as she counted.
One.
Two.
Three.
Thirty dollars.
Her chest tightened.
"This is thirty dollars, Mr. Chris."
"Yes?" he replied, pulling another napkin from the shelf and scrubbing an already clean counter.
"My salary is one hundred dollars," Eleanor said.
He didn't look at her.
"You broke a glass cup in your first week," he said flatly. "Second week, you lost a napkin. Third week, you mismatched an order. That adds up to seventy dollars."
Each word felt like a slap.
Eleanor's expression fell. She clasped her hands together, nails digging into her palms.
"Mr. Chris, please," she said. "I need the money. Rent is due, and I—"
He cut her off with a sharp wave of his hand.
"Today is my dog's birthday," he said. "I don't like hearing stories that touch the heart."
Her throat tightened.
She knew arguing would only make things worse. She bowed her head slightly, tucked the money into her pocket, and turned toward the door.
"Thank you," she murmured, though the words tasted bitter.
She stepped outside.
The sun was already sinking when Eleanor reached her bicycle. The metal frame was scratched and rusted in places, its paint faded from years of use. It had been old when she bought it secondhand—and now it sounded like it might fall apart any day.
She dropped her bag into the basket and pulled out her phone.
The screen was cracked so badly it spider-webbed across her reflection. She slapped the back of it once. Nothing happened. She slapped it again, harder.
The screen flickered to life.
She opened her freelance app.
It was the only thing keeping her afloat—small errands, quick jobs, barely enough to survive. As the app refreshed, a new listing popped up.
Pick up an antique from a penthouse and deliver it to the seaport.
Payment: $50.
Her breath caught.
The penthouse was only a few stops away. The seaport wasn't far either.
Fifty dollars.
Enough for groceries. Enough to make up for what Mr. Chris had taken from her.
"Good deal," she muttered.
She clicked on the order.
A tag appeared instantly.
Order taken.
Her heart sank for a second—then she realized it was assigned to her.
She smiled for the first time that day.
The ride to the penthouse was uphill.
Eleanor pedaled hard, her legs burning as sweat soaked through her shirt. Cars passed her on the road, horns blaring impatiently. By the time she reached the tall iron gate, her lungs were on fire.
She stopped, leaned on the handlebars, and caught her breath.
The building towered above her—white walls, clean glass, security cameras watching silently.
She pressed the bell.
Nothing happened.
She waited.
Minutes passed.
She pressed it again.
Finally, footsteps echoed from inside. The gate creaked open, and a middle-aged man peered out at her.
"What do you want, young lady?"
Eleanor straightened and smiled politely. "I'm here to pick up an antique for delivery to the seaport."
The man frowned. "An antique?"
"Yes," she nodded.
He shook his head. "Sorry. There's no antique for pickup here."
Her smile faltered.
"No antique?" she said. "But the order—"
The man closed the gate without another word.
Eleanor stared at the metal bars.
Her chest tightened.
She pulled out her phone again, slapping the back of it until the screen lit up.
The order status refreshed.
Prank order.
Her vision blurred.
"What the hell?" she whispered.
She had biked all this way for nothing.
First her salary. Now this.
She pressed her palm against her forehead, fighting the sting behind her eyes.
Could her night get any worse?
Her phone alarm shrieked suddenly.
Eleanor flinched and looked at the time.
"Fuck."
She shoved the phone into her pocket and jumped onto her bike.
She was late.
The bike rattled as she pedaled away, its chain squeaking loudly. The sound echoed through the quiet streets, announcing how worn out it was.