Part 63
(Adrian's POV)
The café hadn't changed.
Same rust-colored awning, same faded menu board, same worn table by the window where sunlight poured in every afternoon.
It should've felt nostalgic. It didn't.
Adrian stood in line, his cap pulled low. The place buzzed with quiet chatter and the hiss of the espresso machine, but beneath it all there was a faint current of unease.
He couldn't tell if it was the city, or him.
When the barista give him the coffee, he thanked her, took his drink, and sat at that same window seat out of habit.
Outside, the street was alive with motion. Buses hissed at the curb, people crossed against the light, phones glowed in every other hand.
It was ordinary. That was the unsettling part.
He sipped his coffee and tried to convince himself this was what "normal" felt like.
But normal had edges now—sharp, invisible ones that made him glance up whenever someone lingered too long.
His phone buzzed again: another flood of fan notifications, new tags, a blurry photo someone had already taken of him just entering the café.
He froze. It had only been minutes.
He turned off the screen.
His reflection in the window stared back at him—paler than he remembered, with eyes that still carried the hospital's cold light.
You're fine, he told himself. You're just being careful.
He looked back outside, trying to anchor himself to something real.
A woman stood across the street, her face obscured by a hat, phone raised as if checking directions.
When the light changed, she didn't move.
The crowd passed around her like water around a stone.
For a heartbeat, it felt like the world had gone still.
Then the honk of a taxi snapped him out of it.
He blinked—and she was gone.
His pulse quickened. He forced a breath, grounding himself, refusing to look for her again.
It's the city, he whispered. Just the city.
He finished his coffee, pretending he hadn't noticed how the warmth had already gone cold.