Never Meet

Strange Encounter

Not outside — inside.

Drops slid from the café ceiling though the plaster remained dry, each one striking the floor with the soft click of a camera shutter. The customers pretended not to notice. Cups trembled in their saucers. Conversations skipped like damaged film.

She sat at the same table.

6:14 a.m.

Hands folded beside the camera.

Waiting.

The waitress had stopped asking questions weeks ago. Every morning the woman arrived before dawn. Every morning she ordered black coffee and never touched it. And every morning, just before sunrise, she whispered something to the empty seat across from her.

Today, the waitress finally heard it.

“Not yet.”

The lights flickered.

For one impossible second, everyone in the café froze motionless — mouths half-open, steam hanging still above cups, rain suspended in midair like crystal beads.

Only she could move.

And across the street, a man stood beneath the dead traffic light.

Sebastian.

Not a reflection this time.

Real enough for the breath to leave her lungs.

He wore the same dark coat from the photographs, untouched by rain. One hand rested casually in his pocket while the other held an old silver lighter, turning it slowly between his fingers.

He smiled when she saw him.

Then the world snapped back into motion.

A cup shattered somewhere behind her. The suspended rain hit the floor all at once. Cars hissed past outside.

Sebastian was gone.

But something remained in the empty seat opposite her.

A photograph.

Still developing.

Her hands shook as she picked it up.

The image showed her sleeping in her apartment the night before, curled beneath dim blue television light. The angle came from inside the room.

Closer still — near the foot of her bed.

On the back, written in neat black ink:

YOU LOOKED AT THE MIRROR AGAIN.

She dropped it.

Because she had.

At 2:17 a.m., unable to resist, she had uncovered the cracked mirror hidden beneath blankets in her closet. Only for a second. Only long enough to check whether Sebastian still lingered behind the fractured glass.

He had not been there.

Instead, she saw herself standing alone in the reflection…

while her real body remained several feet behind.

Watching.

The café door opened.

A cold wind moved through the room though the storm outside had stopped.

An old man entered carrying a newspaper beneath his arm. His eyes landed immediately on the photograph at her feet.

And all the color drained from his face.

“You need to burn that,” he whispered.

She stared at him. “Who are you?”

The old man hesitated too long.

Then quietly said:

“I took the first picture.”