Ellie pushes the glass door open into the café, the sign “Third Place” hanging overhead.

  A familiar sensation stirs – a small, sharp-toothed gnawing in her stomach.

  James, the barista, stands behind the counter, preparing the grounds for the day. He seemingly ignores her presence, continuing with his chores.

  She walks past him into the storeroom.

  Setting down her worn backpack, she takes out her water bottle and places it in a corner.

  She does not drink café’s water. Not the tap, and not the type filtered in a glass with lemon wedges in it. She only drinks from her own bottle – one wrapped in cloudy blue plastic.

  It is seven fifty in the morning.

  The Third Place opens at eight.

  Sam, the girl hired one month after Ellie strolls into the storeroom. She wears the same heavy mascara, the same nose ring, the same tight black outfit.

  Humans are just the creatures of habit.

  Ellie changes into her uniform.

  After making sure the cap of her water bottle is tight, she steps out of the storeroom. Her shift starts now. Morning lull.

  Sunlight slants through the windows, golden and soft, but everything feels colder than it looks. The espresso machine hisses as the first customer is being seated. Everyone begins their role in this café.

  Julie, a forty-five-year-old widow, rushes through the glass door and finds her usual spot behind the cashier at the counter. As usual, she is four minutes late.

  The stream of customers grows as the morning continues.

  The Third Place has more regulars than first-timers. Ellie remembers the regulars’ orders – most of them, anyway – but what comforts her the most is the routine she clings to.

  “How are you?” Ellie asks in her usual monotone, her expression still; she has been told that there is something off about her smile.

  “What would you like to have today?” The same words. The same rhythm. It is easier that way. No surprises.

  After all the customers rushing through their morning hours gulp down sandwiches and coffee, Ellie finally has time to stand in the familiar corner to study the café’s remaining patrons. They are all the regulars – mostly.

  The tall Black woman near the window is wearing different earrings. Last week, they were huge gold hoops. Today, they are small silver studs. Ellie starts wiping the side counter as soon as she notices the change. She does not like changes.

  Sam walks past Ellie and throws a glance at the counter holding jars of tap water. Ellie feels nothing at the look of disdain on her face.

  Sam has told Ellie more than once that she wipes the counter too often than necessary.

  A man in his fine suits walks elegantly toward the counter. Ellie never asks for the names of the café’s customers. This man, though, has been a regular.

  “Good morning, Ellie,” the man gives her a warm smile, flashing his polished white teeth. He grabs a jar of water and waits for Ellie to respond.

  Stolen story; please report.

  “Err… good morning,” Ellie swallows the lump in her throat.

  The man nods and finally leaves – Ellie is alone again.

  By ten thirty, the morning rushes fade - the boy who looks about fifteen enters the café. A black bag hangs across his left shoulder — Ellie knows exactly what is inside.

  He takes his usual seat at the table next to the cashier and places his order with Sam: iced lemon soda.

  From the black bag, he pulls out his power bank, a thick gaming phone, and a pair of earphones Ellie has never seen him use.

  Everyone in the café seems to know better than to bother him.

  One lemon soda after another, the boy sinks into his own world.

  His thumbs dart across the screen. His eyebrows twitch. Soft curses slip from his mouth as he plays.

  Ellie has no idea what game he is playing.

  “An enemy has been slain!”

  “Killing spree!”

  Ellie glances at the earphones – untouched on the table – might as well be decoration.

  Ellie wonders why he is not in school. He visits Third Place almost every day. Nobody seems to care.

  Sam gossips with James, the barista, about nearly everything — but never about why the boy is here during school hours. Not once.

  Ellie’s thoughts halt abruptly when a familiar figure passes by the café window — Madam Odette.

  She does not know the names of most of the café’s regular patrons.

  But she knows hers.

  Madam Odette approaches the counter and places her order directly with James.

  Ellie drops her gaze to the floor, scratching a phantom itch on her arm.

  James nods at the order, then shoots Ellie a glance full of disdain — as if even standing ten feet from Madam Odette is far too close.

  Madam Odette, on the other hand, does not seem to notice Ellie at all.

  But something is different about her today.

  A hint of sadness sits gently on her features — the kind that lingers in the corners of the mouth.

  Ellie watches as she walks past her usual table and sits at a different one — farther, quieter, deliberately chosen.

  Why that table? Why the change?

  The familiar gnawing returns, like an itch behind Ellie’s eyes, burrowing into her thoughts.

  Her stare on Madam Odette sharpens — too much.

  Sam shifts beside her.

  “Don’t be stupid and get us into trouble again,” Sam mutters, elbowing Ellie and snapping her out of her reverie.

  Ellie had been banned from serving Madam Odette a month ago.

  The accusation was sharp and public — Madam Odette claimed Ellie had slipped an unknown white powder into her latte.

  James and Sam did not argue. They agreed.

  Even though Ellie saw nothing in the cup — nothing at all.

  She was made to bow. To apologise.

  Right there in front of everyone.

  Strangely enough, one would expect Madam Odette never to return to a café where she believed her drink had been tampered with.

  But she kept coming back.

  Every few days, like clockwork.

  Then, the door chimes.

  A man walks into the café.

  He looks familiar, but Ellie knows he is not one of the regulars.

  He swivels his head slowly, scanning the room. Then he spots her — Madam Odette.

  With a gentle nod, he makes his way toward her.

  Ellie cannot bear to look directly at Madam Odette’s table.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Madam Odette blowing her nose and weeping softly.

  Somehow, Ellie knows the man sitting across from her is whispering — consoling her in hushed tones — though they are not anywhere near earshot.

  As Ellie stares out the window, two schoolgirls behind her are chatting.

  “I think someone should warn Mr. Remy.”

  “How? Say, stay away from that Witch Odette or you might die?”

  “Yes! That is exactly what I would tell him. The last five men she dated are dead! Dead! What are the odds those were accidents?”

  Ellie frowns as one of the girls raises her voice.

  Sam leans lazily against the side counter, her elbow resting on the edge.

  Ellie wonders if she has heard what the schoolgirls are saying.

  The other girl snorts.

  “All men fall for her beauty.”

  “That’s a high price to pay.”

  The two schoolgirls rise to their feet and walk past Ellie — not toward Madam Odette’s table, but to the cashier to pay their bill. Moments later, they leave the café, the doorbell chiming softly behind them.

  It is then that Ellie feels it — a prickling sensation crawling up the back of her neck.

  Madam Odette is watching her.

  She knows Ellie is here.

  Across the table, the man keeps his head bowed, listening intently to whatever Madam Odette is saying.

  Then, mid-sentence, Madam Odette reaches for something beside her saucer. She tips a small packet over her cup, and a fine white powder drifts in like ash — slow and weightless.

  Ellie’s breath catches.

  Her eyebrows lift. Eyes wide. Frozen.

  She cannot believe what she is seeing.

  And then —

  Madam Odette looks up and flashes her a smile.

  Not a friendly one.