The killer !

The cafe was brimming with noise and aroma — coffee brewing, spoons clinking, voices rising and falling like a tide of mundane chaos. Xerox Cafe, nestled in the quieter corner of Marlow Street, was the sort of place people came to vanish from their day to day life as an escape . But today, something… or someone, had stirred the still water. “Rose… where are you? Not in your senses, huh? Customers are just lined up!” barked a voice — harsh, gravelly, and soaked in irritation. Rose blinked. The voice belonged to Aunty Veolia, the cafe’s manager, and perhaps the most disgruntled woman in the entire block. Her small frame moved like a storm wrapped in an apron, red lipstick smudged on the corners of her mouth as she stormed toward the counter. Startled, Rose turned around. There was a peculiar stillness in her eyes — deep blue and haunting. Her face, once the picture of youthful charm, looked drained, as if joy had slowly seeped away with each passing shift. She wore a fitted black checkered shirt over a soft pink tank top. Her long, free-flowing hair swayed behind her as if it, too, wished to escape. “I—I’m sorry,” she stammered. “But my shift ended over an hour ago. I’m still here… and we don’t even get paid for the overtime.” Aunty Veolia's eyes narrowed. Her voice became venomous. “Hey girl, if you're this damn useless, then get the hell out of here. Go find some other job. You're my servant, not the other way around!” Rose didn’t argue. There was no point. She was used to this — the words, the tone, the humiliation. It had all become routine. She turned back toward the service counter and resumed taking orders, expression frozen in a soft, sad blankness. “Next, please,” she said, her voice low, automatic. An old man stepped forward. Neatly dressed in a long black trench coat, he had an elegance that felt doubtable in a café like this. His eyes, sharp and sunken, scanned her face with quiet intensity. Rose looked up, caught in his gaze. Something in her paused — something instinctual, buried. “Yes, sir. How may I help you?” she asked, trying to sound normal. But the man didn’t speak. His lips parted slightly, but no words came. Instead, he kept staring… in her eyes. Her brows furrowed slightly. “Sir…?” He took a subtle step closer — only a centimeter — but it was enough to break the veil of casualness. “I’m listening,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Your eyes… your eyes are… blue. Deep blue. Like hers…” Rose pulled back. “That has nothing to do with you. Please place your order or move aside. People are waiting.” She turned to the next customer, but the old man didn’t move for a long second. Then, slowly, reluctantly, he walked away and exited the café. But even outside, he didn’t stop watching. From across the glass pane, he took out his phone and dialed. A voice answered, gruff and urgent. “Yes?” “We found her,” the old man whispered. “The girl. The one you’ve been searching for.” There was a pause. Then: “Where?” “Xerox Café. She’s here. Same eyes. Same voice. She doesn’t know or may be ,she is just acting.” “Stay there. Don’t let her disappear again.” The old man nodded and ended the call. Inside, Rose sighed and slipped behind the service counter. Her break was long overdue. She pushed the back door open and stepped outside into the alley behind the café, breathing in the crisp, late-afternoon air. She pulled out a cigarette and lit it with trembling fingers. The match flickered. Her hand was shaking. Why did that man look at her like that? Why did it feel like he knew her? She hadn't always lived in this town. Before the age of eleven, her memory was a blank slate — shadows, echoes, fragments. An orphanage . Fire. Screams. Her name was Rose because someone once told her it suited her. That was all. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Her phone buzzed — a message from her roommate: “R u coming to the club tonight? I think, you need a break.” She glanced at the message. A night out? Maybe. But something about today didn’t sit right. Before she could reply, a tall figure turned into the alley. The same old man. Her heart dropped. She straightened, cautious now. “Can I help you, sir?” He held up his hands. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I just… I need to ask you something. Please.” She looked toward the back door of the café, ready to retreat. He noticed. “Just two questions,” he said gently. “Do you remember anything before the age of eleven?” Rose paused. “That’s… nothing to do with you,why are you following me!,” she replied with little frustration. “And… Do you know that name? Lucas?” She froze a little , but summed herself up. The cigarette burned down between her fingers that showed her discomfort. That name. Why did it sound familiar? Why did it send chills through her bones? “I don’t know what kinda game you’re playing and what nonsense you doing here , but this is not funny,” she snapped. “Please leave.” The man sighed. “I didn’t expect you to remember. But you will. Soon.Just wait and watch .” He walked away without another word. Rose stood still, heart racing, until he disappeared around the corner. That night, the café lights dimmed, and the streets turned gold under the flickering lamps. Rose returned to her tiny one-bedroom apartment two blocks away. Her roommate, Tasha, was already dressed for the club, wearing a black, figure-hugging outfit that sparkled like midnight fire, mascara thick and heels higher than necessary. “You coming,right?” she asked. “I think I’ll pass,” Rose murmured. Tasha frowned. “Who gonna lose this party duh , hot boys and chilled bear” “You enjoy it ! Just tired. Long day.” “That’s why, come on, f1 winner, Oliver Tashkent is also joining the party today, ,just too hot to handle, ” Tasha said, eyeing her curiously. “Nothing matters” ,Rose’s voice carried the weight of exhaustion “Alright, your loss. Don’t get haunted while I’m gone.” When the door shut behind her, Rose curled up on the couch and turned on the radio — soft jazz humming in the background. But her thoughts kept drifting back to the man… his voice… that name. Lucas. She suddenly rushed to the bathroom, a wave of nausea hitting her out of nowhere. She vomited , turned on the tap, and splashed little hot water on her face. Looking into the mirror, she stared at her own deep eyes. The blue. So vivid. So… familiar and mysterious. Suddenly, a flashback , A burning house……! A child screaming…..! A boy with eyes just like hers… grabbing her hand and shouting her name — not Rose, but something else… She gasped and gripped the sink. What was happening? Across town, in an old villa buried in ivy and secrets, a man sat in a dark room, listening to the report from the trench-coated stranger. “She’s alive,” the old man said. “Maybe She’s forgotten everything or is just acting , but she’s safe. For now.” The man in the chair leaned forward. His face was half-shadowed, jaw tense. “It’s her. After all these years…” His voice cracked slightly. “My Rose…” Back in her room, Rose opened the drawer and pulled out an old notebook — leather belt bounded, pages yellowing. It was the only thing found with her when she was taken to the orphanage. No name. No family. Only this book… and a note in shaky handwriting: “Protect the girl with the blue eyes. Lucas will find her.” Her hands started shaking again . She had always dismissed it as a long gone story But now? Now, nothing felt imaginary anymore. She whispered the name under her breath — not knowing why it comforted her. “Lucas…” And somewhere far away, someone whispered her name too — not the one she used… but the one she had forgotten…..!