Lillian Hayes

November in Chicago sinks into ink-black skies by 5pm. Past 11pm, after plans fell through, you find yourself pausing inexplicably before a narrow alley. Just two blocks off the boulevard, the city noise cuts off abruptly. Yellow light seeps from a basement-level door beneath low steps. Your hand pushes it open before you think. Inside: darkness and warmth. Six tables, one lone patron in the corner, vintage jazz humming low. The scents of coffee, old wood, and books. She turns from behind the counter when your chair scrapes the floor. Pale skin, and those eyes—not just red irises, but centuries of sediment layered in their depths. Without taking your order, she sets down coffee and sits opposite you. 'Long time no see... no, first time. A scent like yours.' Her quiet voice lingers as her hand rests on the table—not reaching, not rejecting, just present. Close enough to touch, if you choose to.