Chapter1
1041 Words
It rained last night, and the morning wasn’t any better. The moment Eli Sinclair stepped out of his apartment, he regretted being awake at all.
The sky was still unsure of itself—dark enough to deceive but bright enough to make it harder to fall back asleep.
“f**k this,” he sighed, hurrying across the pavement that still smelled like yesterday’s rain. Just as he reached the curb, a bus sped past, hitting a puddle he hadn’t even seen.
“Hey—” he started, but water slapped across his legs before he could finish. Eli just stood there for a second, staring down at his soaked jeans.
A guy across the street let out a low whistle. “Tough start, man.”
“Thanks for the update,” Eli muttered, wiping his thigh like it would make a difference.
He pulled his hood up and picked up the pace toward Caffè Dolce, hoping no one noticed the wet patch across his knees.
A honk blared as he crossed the road too early, and a cab swerved just enough to make him stumble back onto the sidewalk. The driver stuck a hand out the window and shouted something he didn’t catch… probably for the best.
And of course, because the day was so full of promise, one of his shoelaces came loose just before he reached the café. He bent to fix it… tugged, and the lace snapped.
Eli's elbow slammed into the brick wall behind him.
“Goodness…” he hissed.
The moment he finally stepped through the door of the café, he exhaled.
Finally.
The warm air hit his face, and the familiar scent of cinnamon, old wood, and burnt espresso pulled his mood back to somewhere manageable. It wasn’t perfect, but it was his space.
Suddenly, rain started again—hitting the roof loudly, and for a second Eli looked up, just listening.
“Rough morning?” came Marco’s voice from the corner.
You have no idea, Eli thought. He walked behind the counter, shook out his arms, and pulled the lever on the espresso machine. The soft grind and hiss filled the space as the first shot of the day poured into a chipped white cup.
The regulars were already in place: Marco in his half-unzipped vest, the girl in the corner scribbling away, and old Pietro chewing his donut like it was his last meal.
Eli gave them a tired nod, and they returned it without a word. It was routine. And after this morning, he needed it.
The bell above the door jingled, and in walked Madame Fergusson. She always marched in at the oddest times, glaring like everyone was a personal insult. Her eyes swept across the chairs, the walls, even the clock, as if she was just daring something to be slightly crooked.
Eli slid an espresso cup toward her without asking.
She stopped, staring at it like he’d just placed a live frog on the counter. “Café latte,” she said sharply, her tone thick with irritation.
“Of course,” Eli replied, keeping his voice soft. He reached for one of the cups that didn’t look too scratched and started steaming the milk. The machine hissed, and he finished with a light swirl and a dash of cinnamon.
The foam sat just right.
Madame Fergusson reached out and dipped the edge of her silk scarf directly into the foam. A single drop landed squarely on her white blouse. She pulled the scarf back slowly with an unreadable expression.
“Terrible,” she said without looking up. “My tailor will bill you.” With that, she turned on her heel and walked out, the scent of her Chanel perfume trailing behind like smoke.
Eli grimaced. When he turned back to the counter, the café had gone still. The girl in the corner had stopped scribbling. Marco blinked once, then returned to his donut like nothing happened.
He quickly wiped the counter with a cloth, keeping his hands moving. Then he noticed something seated at the far end of the counter. It was a black envelope. The wax seal was deep red, stamped with a twisted old tree that twisted in all directions.
His name, E. Sinclair, was written in cursive letters. Eli wondered why he hadn’t seen anyone drop it. And he would’ve… he picked the envelope, turned it over in his hand, and felt the faintest heat where the seal touched his skin.
“Hey, you get mail now?” Marco asked, straining his neck to see. “Or is that an eviction notice in disguise?”
“I’ll check it in the back,” Eli said, already heading into the storage room.
The light in there flickered once before staying on. Eli held the envelope up, squinting. The tree symbol looked familiar… not the shape, but the way it felt. He cracked the seal and unfolded the thick paper inside.
Eli stared at the letter. What debt? He thought of the photo that used to hang on his bedroom wall—his mother, standing in front of a tree that looked just like this. She used to tell him things he didn’t understand… strange bedtime stories that always ended in warnings.
She once said, "Some names find you whether you're ready or not."
He’d forgotten that until now.
Eli's hand tightened around the paper before he folded it neatly and slid it into the inner pocket of his hoodie. Then he walked back out like nothing had happened.
“All good?” Marco asked.
“Yeah,” Eli said. “Just...a weird delivery.”
He cleaned a few mugs, rang out the last customers, and tried not to keep checking his chest like the letter might start glowing.
When the café finally emptied again, he stepped to the front door and looked out. Tower Nine stood in the distance, hardly visible behind the clouds. He stared at it for a while, one hand resting against his chest. The wax seal was warm again.
“I’ll be there.” He whispered. What started as a stupid, wet, miserable morning had turned into something new and exciting.
But something was coming, and it had his name on it.
- Writer
