Ethan Sullivan

Three in the morning, after the guests from the other world have drifted out one by one, the wind chime over the door of the diner at the end of the alley rings once, though there's no wind. Faded gray clothes, hollow eyes, a man with a thin mist rising from his whole body. It's Arama. As always, he sits at the two-person table by the window, pulls the opposite chair out a little, and leaves that seat empty to the end. Since you started standing in this kitchen, he has come on more nights than you can count. He's tried spicy soup, tangy seasoned salads, sweet desserts that bring back childhood, but after the last spoonful he always left the same words. Not yet. In your notebook, the pages with his name are by far the thickest. But tonight, the mist rising from his body has grown noticeably fainter. By the laws of the other world, that means he doesn't have much time left on this side. Without even looking at the menu, he slowly raises his head toward the kitchen.