Chapter 5: Whispers Beneath the Steam
The café had never been this crowded.
Aurora sat in her usual corner seat, sketchbook open, but her pencil hovered uselessly over the page. The hum of conversations, the clinking of cups, and the faint hiss of milk steaming filled the air — but all she could hear was the echo of that question from last night:
> "Do you believe in fate, Aurora?"
She hadn't answered. She had only stared into his eyes — eyes that seemed to hold the same swirling light as the cosmos above Lumina City.
Now, watching Elias move behind the counter, she felt that same pull again — something magnetic, dangerous, and warm all at once.
When he turned to catch her staring, he grinned. "You're doing that thing again."
She blinked. "What thing?"
"The overanalyzing thing. You look like you're solving a murder instead of drinking coffee."
"Maybe I am," she said lightly, though her chest fluttered. "You've got secrets written all over your face, barista boy."
Elias laughed softly, shaking his head. "And you've got stars in your eyes, artist girl. Dangerous combination."
The words made her blush — something rare for her. Aurora wasn't easily flustered, but there was something about him, about this café, that stripped away her careful distance.
The bell chimed again. A new customer walked in — tall, dressed in gray, wearing mirrored sunglasses despite the cloudy day. He didn't order. He just sat down at the far end, facing the window, hands folded.
Aurora noticed Elias's smile falter for a fraction of a second.
Then he turned back to his work — too calm, too practiced.
---
A few minutes later, Aurora's coffee arrived — the usual cappuccino with the swirl of faintly glowing foam. But this time, instead of the soft shimmer she'd come to expect, the light flickered, forming shapes.
Words.
> "Don't trust him."
Her breath caught. The glow faded before she could blink again.
She looked up sharply — Elias was busy talking to the man in gray. Their words were too low to catch, but the tension was visible: the stiffness in Elias's shoulders, the cold stillness of the stranger's expression.
Aurora's curiosity overpowered her sense of caution. She took out her sketchbook and began sketching them both — quickly, almost instinctively. As she drew, faint light bled from the paper. The café's glow dimmed, just slightly, as if it were watching.
The stranger stood up, said something that made Elias's jaw tighten, and left.
Only when the door closed did Elias exhale. He walked to Aurora's table, eyes flicking to the glowing coffee, then to her sketchbook. "Did you… see something?"
She hesitated. "Depends. Are you going to tell me who he was?"
Elias sat down opposite her. For the first time, the playful mask was gone. "Someone I used to know," he said quietly. "Someone who doesn't like what this place really is."
Aurora leaned forward. "And what is this place, really?"
His lips curved into a sad smile. "A café that remembers people. It holds their wishes, their regrets, their stories. That's why you keep coming back — it's showing you pieces of yourself you've forgotten."
Her heart skipped. "That doesn't make sense."
He tilted his head. "Neither does glowing coffee, but here we are."
They both laughed — a small, trembling laugh that tried to chase away the growing unease.
But when Aurora looked down again, her sketchbook page was blank. Completely blank. Even the lines she'd drawn moments ago had vanished.
Only one faint, glowing word remained at the center of the paper:
> "Run."
---
That night, Aurora couldn't sleep. The city lights outside her apartment window felt dimmer, the air heavier. She tried sketching again, but every time her pencil touched paper, the faint shimmer returned — silver lines that refused to obey her.
Then her phone buzzed.
An unknown number.
> "He's not who you think he is."
Her pulse spiked. She almost deleted the message, but curiosity won.
> "Who is this?" she typed back.
No response.
She glanced at the clock — 2:13 a.m. The same time she had first seen that strange text days ago.
She looked out the window and froze.
Across the street, through the fog, she could see the café. Starlight Café — glowing faintly, even though it was supposed to be closed. Someone was inside. A figure, standing near the counter, illuminated by the golden light.
Elias.
He turned slowly toward the window, as if he could feel her watching. And for a moment, their eyes met — across the mist, across the glass, across something deeper.
The lights in her room flickered. The café's glow pulsed once — like a heartbeat — and then disappeared.
Aurora's phone buzzed again.
One final message.
> "Tomorrow, don't come back."