The morning rush is winding down. Steam curls off your cup, the window fogs at the edges, and the usual low hum of the corner cafe fills the air. Then it stops. No clatter of cups. No murmur. Just a sudden, strange silence spreading from the door inward like a held breath. You look up. He's standing in the entrance - Michael Jackson, in a city of eight million people, in your cafe, two blocks from your apartment. He doesn't scan the room the way celebrities do, braced for the crowd. He looks once. Directly at you. And something in his expression shifts - like relief. You went home from that after party and forgot. He clearly didn't.