She came in during the afternoon lull. Two hours past lunch, one hour before dinner prep. The quietest part of the day. I was at the counter, half-reading a flour-stained list of ingredient orders, half-staring at nothing.
The door opened. She stepped inside. Grey cloak. Grey hood. The same woman from weeks ago — the one who'd been in the corner when I found the note, the one who'd watched without speaking, left a silver coin, and vanished.
I knew her immediately. She walked to the same seat. The corner table, facing the door. She sat down without removing her hood, though the shadows beneath it showed the edge of a jaw, a strand of dark hair.
"One Margherita," she said. "A cup of water."
Her voice was low. Unremarkable. The kind of voice you'd forget if you weren't paying attention. I was paying attention.
My hands found the flour bin without looking. I scooped, dusted the counter, and felt the familiar give of the dough under my palms. The movements were automatic — fold, press, turn, repeat — and that left my brain free to circle the question I couldn't answer. Why was she back? A month between visits. A single pizza each time. Water, not wine. The kind of customer who existed just outside the margins of normal.
---
I made the pizza. Nothing special — same dough, same sauce, same cheese I'd made a thousand times. But my hands were steadier than I expected. I plated it, poured the water, and brought it to her table. She didn't look up.
"Thank you."
I waited. She didn't say anything else. I went back to the counter and watched.
She ate the same way as before. Slow. Methodical. Each bite chewed thoroughly. She didn't read, didn't look around, didn't do anything but eat. The hood stayed up the entire time.
I caught Al's eye from across the room. He was watching too, his rag frozen mid-polish. He gave me a small shake of his head. Don't engage.
I stayed put. But I didn't stop watching.
She ate like someone who'd learned to savor — not from abundance, but from scarcity. Each bite mattered. Each chew was deliberate. I'd seen that kind of eating before, in people who'd gone without. The grey cloak hung heavy around her shoulders, the fabric thick and practical, nothing decorative about it. A utility cloak. A working cloak. I filed that away.
---
She finished. Drained the water. Set the cup down with a soft clink. Then she stood. She walked toward the counter instead of the door.
I straightened. Al moved slightly, positioning himself between her and the kitchen entrance. His hand was hidden behind his back — probably holding something sharp. I'd never seen him ready to fight before, and the sight of it made my stomach tighten.
She stopped in front of me. Her face was still shadowed by the hood, but I could see enough — pale skin, a thin mouth, eyes that reflected the light strangely.
"You're not from here, are you?"
The question landed like a stone in still water. I opened my mouth. Closed it. My mind raced through a dozen responses — denial, deflection, a joke about the flour on my apron. None of them felt right. She'd asked the question like she already knew the answer, like she was confirming something she'd been told.
She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and walked to the door.
I followed, my feet moving before I decided to. I reached the doorway just as she stepped through. The street was full. Afternoon shoppers, carts, children running between legs. The usual chaos of Dalton's main thoroughfare.
She was gone. I stood in the doorway, scanning the crowd. No grey cloak. No hood. Nothing. She'd vanished into the flow of bodies like ink into water.
Al appeared beside me. "Well?"
"I don't know."
He looked at the crowd. Looked at me. "You're pale."
I didn't answer.
---
I went back inside. The table was clear, the plate and cup already returned to the wash bin. She'd cleaned her own table, which somehow made the whole thing worse. I sat down in her seat. Looked at the door the way she'd looked at it.
You're not from here, are you?
Not a question. A statement wrapped in a question. She knew. Or she suspected. Or she was fishing with something she'd heard from someone else.
I thought about the notes. We know who you are. The grey-cloaked woman. The watchers. Big brother dearest's spies. Fendrel with his sample of my flour. The net was tightening.
I pressed my palms against the table and breathed. Al brought me a glass of water. Set it down. Didn't say anything. I drank it slowly, the way she'd eaten her slice. Methodical. Thinking.
The evening crowd moved past the window. Normal people doing normal things. And somewhere out there, a woman in a grey cloak knew something about me that I didn't know about myself.
The pizzeria was quiet. I wondered how long it would stay that way.
The pizzeria felt different now. Smaller, somehow. The corners held shadows I hadn't noticed before. The windows showed the street but also showed my reflection — a ghost in flour-dusted clothes, staring back with someone else's eyes.
I went back to the counter. Checked the prep list. Folded towels. Pointless rituals that kept my hands busy while my brain ran in circles. She'd asked a question and hadn't waited for an answer.
Which meant she already had one. I didn't know if that was a comfort or a threat.
Probably both.