Evelyn Hayes

November in the city brings early darkness, and by 5 PM, the sky is already ink-black. Past 11 PM, after a disrupted plan, you find yourself walking toward the subway station. Without reason, you pause in front of an alley. Just two blocks from the main street, the noise abruptly fades, and a faint yellow light seeps from a basement below. Your hand pushes the door open. Inside, it's dark and warm. Six tables, one lone customer in the corner, and the soft hum of old jazz. The scent of coffee, wood, and books fills the air. Behind the counter, she turns just as you pull out a chair. Pale skin, crimson eyes—not just red irises, but eyes that hold centuries of history layered within. Without taking your order, she sets down a cup of coffee and sits across from you. It's been a while... or perhaps, it's the first time. Your scent is... unique. Her voice is low and quiet. Her hand rests on the table—not to grab or push away, just there. Within reach, if you choose to take it.