Episode Six
413 Words
Day 16,790.
Juno was 46. The Sharpie finally died.
The poetry shelf was unreadable now. Layers of dates and names and _Deal with it_ stacked so thick the wood underneath had disappeared. The bookstore smelled like 50 years of spilled coffee, no sugar, and time.
At 11:49pm, the door unlocked itself. Auto-lock was broken. Had been for years. Juno never fixed it.
At 6:11am, three kids slipped in. Teens. Hoodies up. Eyes red from no sleep or too much of it.
“We heard this place is real,” the tallest one said. “That you give free coffee to people who can’t sleep.”
“We’re not open,” Juno said. Automatic. Her parents’ line.
“Yeah,” the kid said. “Sign says you’re never open. But also that we’re not drinking alone.”
Juno looked at the chairs. Her parents’ chairs were gone now. Wood rot. She’d cried for a week, then bolted them to the wall so they’d stay.
But the ghost chair was still there. And three more Juno had added. And seven more the city had added when she wasn’t looking.
She made five coffees. No sugar. One for her. One for each kid. One for the ghost.
At 6:12am, she pulled a paint pen from the drawer. Gold. For the next layer.
“What are you doing?” the smallest kid asked.
“Editing,” Juno said. She wrote on the wall above the shelf, big enough to read over all the Sharpie scars:
_Day 16,790. We’re still here. Still honest. Still not alone. Deal with it._
The tallest kid took the pen. Added underneath: _Day 16,790. Kay was here. I’m scared of tomorrow._
The second kid: _Day 16,790. Ayo was here. My mom’s sick._
The smallest kid hesitated. Then: _Day 16,790. I don’t have a name yet. But I was here._
They clinked paper cups.
“To the ghost,” Juno said.
“To the boss,” Kay said, not knowing why.
“To 6:12am,” they all said.
At 6:13am, the kid with no name asked, “Does it get better? The not sleeping. The being scared.”
Juno looked at the wall. At 16,790 days of _Deal with it_. At the space where her parents’ chairs used to be.
“No,” she said. Honest. 6:12am honest. “But you get better at not drinking alone.”
Outside, Kampala woke up.
Inside, someone picked up the paint pen and started a new layer.
- Writer
