“I’m coming over,” I said.
A pause, then her voice came softly, “that won’t be a problem. I’ll be expecting you.”
The shop was tucked between an abandoned bookstore and a broken-down laundromat—innocuous, humble, forgettable. Exactly how she likes it.
A rusted sign creaked overhead: “Bean & Dust”. A rundown coffee shop, barely alive by the look of it. One might think it had closed years ago.
But the moment I stepped inside, I caught the scent of cinnamon and roasted beans. Dim lights bathed the shelves. A bored-looking barista stood behind the counter, pretending to wipe the same spot on a mug for the past five minutes.
But I didn’t come for coffee.
At the far end of the shop, past the half-filled booths and soft jazz music humming through old speakers, there was a corridor almost hi
