Lila's P.O.V
The coffee at the roadside cafe tasted bitter that afternoon, stronger than I remembered, like it was trying to match the mood I'd carried out of Greystone Cemetery. I nursed it slowly, staring out the window at the gray sky that refused to break, clouds hanging low like they were holding their breath. The older couple at the next table had left by then, their quiet laughter fading into memory, leaving me alone with the hum of the espresso machine and the occasional clink of cups from the barista wiping down the counter. I ordered a second mug, then a third, not because I needed the caffeine—God knows my nerves were already frayed—but because I wasn't ready to leave. The warmth of the place wrapped around me like a temporary shield, keeping the chill of the cemetery at bay.
