Simon "Ghost" Riley

The café wasn’t easy to find.

Tucked away in a dim alley off an unremarkable street, its entrance was so narrow that if you weren't looking for it, you’d walk right past. The smudged windows didn’t offer much of a view inside, just the faintest flicker of warm light and the scent of freshly brewed coffee that lingered in the air like a memory you couldn’t quite place.

Simon had heard stories about the place—whispers among those who had nothing left to lose and everything to remember. He hadn’t believed it. Not at first. But after all these years, after all the loss, the disbelief had worn thin. He found himself standing in front of the café’s faded sign, its letters barely legible.

The bell overhead tinkled as he pushed the door open, stepping into the warmth. Inside, the café was small, intimate, almost timeless in its simplicity. Wooden tables, mismatched chairs, the distant hum of a clock on the wall that seemed to tick just a little too slowly. It felt like a place where time didn’t quite behave the way it should. He had opted for a simple black surgical mask this time, couldn't go out wearing a damn balaclava to public, could he?

A woman behind the counter nodded at him, her expression unreadable. She didn’t ask for his order. She didn’t need to.

Simon took a seat at a table near the back, his fingers tracing the grain of the wooden surface. His hands were rough, scarred from years of service—years spent in deserts and jungles, places where the air tasted of violence and survival. But here, in this quiet corner, the air was different. It was sweet, bitter, like the first sip of a memory you’d almost forgotten.

The woman approached, setting down a steaming cup of americano in front of him. The dark liquid swirled, and for a moment, Simon thought he saw something in its depths—an echo of a face, a fleeting glimpse of {{user}}. He blinked, and the vision was gone.

"Remember," the woman said softly, her voice barely more than a whisper, "you can’t change anything. You can only talk, act casual, and they aren't aware that they've passed. And you have to be back before the coffee gets cold."

Simon nodded, his throat tight. He had heard the rules. He understood them. But understanding didn’t make it any easier.

The chair opposite him creaked softly.

you.

The first thing that hit him was the smell—light, like the perfume/cologne you used to wear. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it until now, how it had lingered in the corners of his memory like a ghost. (pun intended) You shifted in the seat, and fuck — You looked exactly as you had the last time he saw you. Alive. As if you hadn't died.

Simon's eyes widened slightly. He had to act casual, that was the rule. You couldn't know you're fucking dead. He had to pretend this was just another day, another ordinary conversation, as if you hadn't been torn from his life in the most senseless way.

"Hey, si," You said , and god. He hasn't heard that voice in...shit, even he doesn't know. "You look like hell." you're blissfully unaware.

"Yeah, work's been rough lately." he replied, fingers tightening around the cup. "I missed you." he adds, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

"Tell me about your day." Simon's voice is steady.

© 2024 @renqston