Seduction of the Mind

The Lighthouse

The café smelled like cinnamon and burnt espresso, its hum punctuated by the hiss of milk steaming and the clink of ceramic cups against saucers. Late morning light slanted across the tables, drawing pale stripes across Ethan’s sleeve as he sat across from John, nursing a coffee that was already cooling.

John grinned the way men grin when they’ve been waiting for an opportunity to say I told you so. He clapped Ethan on the shoulder, making the cup wobble.

“Finally,” he said. “You did it. Period on the sentence.”

Ethan lifted a brow. “A bleak sentence.”

“Sure,” John said. “But it’s over. No more dragging chains through the house.” He raised his cup in a mock toast. “To freedom.”

Ethan echoed the word without warmth. Freedom tasted metallic.

They let the noise of the room fill the next few beats—baristas moving in a practiced ballet, a bell over the door chiming as people came and went. Outside, leaves skittered across the sidewalk like scraps of gold paper.

“So,” John said, settling in, “how’s work? Still saving the broken and the bored?”

“Something like that.”

“And your artist?” John’s eyes had that casual-to-curious shift Ethan knew too well. “How’s that going?”

“Calmer,” Ethan said. “Sessions flow. But I can’t shake the feeling she hides parts of herself on purpose—like there’s an architecture under the surface and she only lets me walk the corridors she chooses.”

John huffed. “We all do. You included.” Then—lighter, teasing: “Speaking of corridors you’ve walked before… Julia.”

Ethan’s mouth twitched. “What about her?”

“Don’t play dumb. Julia. Your college friend.” John’s grin warmed. “I ran into you two at the café the other day—looked like an easy rhythm. She’s been interested for a long time.”

Ethan looked down at his coffee. “She’s… safe ground.”

“Safe can be good,” John said. “You’ve been navigating storms. Lighthouses matter.”

“You and your metaphors.”

“They work.” John checked his watch, sighed. “I’d say let me drag you out tonight to celebrate your glorious solitude, but I know that face. Rain check?”

“Next week,” Ethan said.

“Deal. And Ethan?” John tipped his chin toward him. “Don’t go home and reorganize your guilt. Text Julia. Keep it simple. Normal can be medicine.”

Ethan almost smiled. “You dispensing now?”

“Always.” John stood, squeezed Ethan’s shoulder. “Text me if you change your mind about tonight.” He was gone a moment later, leaving confidence and cologne in his wake.

The café felt briefly too quiet. Ethan watched the last swirl of grounds in his cup, an inkblot that refused to resolve. He thought of Helena’s suitcase wheels ticking over the threshold; of Olivia and Claire not looking up; of Vivienne’s drawing—the girl on the swing and the ghost of a blade in her hand.

His phone was in his palm before he made a decision. He typed:

Coffee tomorrow morning. Same place as last time?

The reply arrived almost at once: 👍

Ethan exhaled. Maybe John was right. Maybe Julia was what he needed now—a lighthouse in weather that wouldn’t clear. Or maybe it was just another illusion: a swing above a shadow he still couldn’t see.