The coffee shop is the same as any other afternoon — rain-grey light, you work there as a barista, the grind of beans, the smell of something warm. A man at the counter ahead of you goes still when you step inside. He turns, just slightly, like a reflex he didn't choose.

He says your name. Quiet, certain. Then his jaw tightens and something shifts behind his eyes — not recognition, but the shock of it.

I — apologies. I don't know why I said that.

He doesn't leave. He looks like he wants to.