Page 29 of Spring L.A.W.
She slapped on a smile that felt like it had been ironed into place. “I won, if that helps.”
He snorted and went back to restocking cups. Katie ducked behind the espresso bar and got to work, muscle memory carrying her through the motions. Grind. Tamp. Pull. Steam. Pour. Smile. Repeat.
But her thoughts kept circling like seagulls around a fishing boat. The notebook. The handwriting that wasn’t hers. The graffiti.You dreamed of this.
She didn’t remember dreaming last night. Not really. Just flashes. A metal gate, rusted shut. A shadow moving behind it. The sound of rats scattering, then silence. Thick, unnatural silence. Like the world holding its breath.
And the figure in the distance. Unmoving. Faceless. Featureless. Voiceless. A new wave of nausea rose in her throat.
“Grande oat milk latte for... Broomhilda?” she called, trying to force some cheer into her voice.
A girl with two nose rings, glitter on her eyelids, andabindi where her third eye would be stepped forward. “That’s me.”
Of course it was.
As Katie handed over the drink, her fingers brushed the cardboard sleeve. She froze. It was warm from the drink. And still, somehow, wet. Not like spilled milk. Thicker. Stickier. It smelled coppery.
She yanked her hand back and glanced down. Was that blood?
“Did you—?” she started, looking up. But Glitter Girl was already gone, flouncing out the door. Katie looked down again. Nothing clung to her palm. She grabbed a napkin and wiped her hand, heart thundering. Her boss didn't seem to notice. No one did. She must have imagined it.
The bell over the door jingled. A man walked in, slow and deliberate, like someone who didn’t need to rush like the rest of the world. Dressed all in gray. Gray coat, gray shoes, gray skin. Not pale. Light gray. Like he’d been caught in a volcanic eruption.
And when he turned toward her, his face was empty. No eyes, no nose, no mouth. Empty.
She dropped the portafilter with a loudclang. He tilted his head slightly. As if curious.
“Bathroom,” she whispered to her boss, and bolted from behind the bar. Customers turned to look, but no one said anything.
She slammed the door behind her, locked it, and pressed her back to the wall. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out. No notifications. No messages. Just a new photo on her wallpaper. It was her, standing at the espresso machine. And behind her, at the far edge of the photo, barely visible, a gray figure. Smiling. And this time, it had a mouth and pointed teeth.
Katie did what any rational adult would do. She shrieked and threw her phone across the tiny bathroom.
It bounced off the paper towel dispenser and landed in the sink. Still smiling at her. Still with the pointed, toothy grin.
“Oh,hellno,” she muttered, dragging both hands down her face. She delicately picked up and rested her phone, face down, on the toilet seat and splashed cold water on her cheeks like it might wake her up from whatever this was. Sleepwalking? Schizophrenia? A caffeine-crash?
She didn’t have time for a breakdown. Rent was due in two weeks, and her espresso-pulling hand was still functioning, which meant she had no excuse for a sick day.
Her phone buzzed again. Same pocket. She looked at the sink. It was empty. She must have tucked it back into her pocket and forgotten, yeah, like one second ago.
Slowly, like her pocket was haunted, she reached into it. Her phone was there and lit up. It showed the same picture. Only this time, the gray figure was closer.
Still grinning. Still teeth.
Katie dropped the phone back into her apron pocket and sat on the closed toilet lid, trying to breathe without hyperventilating.
“Okay,” she said aloud, “So either I’m cracking up, or something from my dreams is stalking me in real life. Super fun choices.Reallyloving this choose-your-own-nightmare.”
She stood and flushed nothing, just for the illusion of normalcy, then forced herself to unlock the door.
The coffee shop looked the same. Customers still scrolling. Lattes still foaming. Her boss was taking orders like a man with no idea his barista had just been emotionally messed with by a phantom. But the good news was, no gray man. No chaos.
She took a careful step forward. And stopped.
A single word had been scrawled on the whiteboard by the register. In the same pale blue as the graffiti outside. Not her boss’s handwriting. Just one word.
RUN.
