The afternoon sun filtered through the hanging plants at Fireside Brews Café, casting dappled shadows across the wooden tables and making the whole place feel like something out of a gentle dream. I arrived at exactly two o’clock, my palms sweating slightly despite the cool October air, my heart doing that uncomfortable thing where it beats too fast and too hard at the same time. The café smelled of fresh coffee and cinnamon rolls, warm and inviting, but my stomach was doing somersaults that had nothing to do with hunger.
My name is Aiden Chen, and at thirty-two years old, I was about to go on my first date in four years. Four years since my life had imploded in the kindest, quietest way possible—my wife leaving a note on the kitchen counter saying she couldn’t do this anymore, disappearing to California, divorce papers arriving three months later like an afterthought.
I chose a table with a clear view of the door, my leg bouncing underneath in a nervous rhythm I couldn’t quite control. I checked my phone: 2:03 PM. Across the café, partially hidden behind newspapers that seemed oddly old-fashioned for 2019, sat two of my coworkers from the logistics company where I coordinated shipping routes: Jasper Lane and Kyle Patterson. I’d noticed them immediately when I walked in—Columbus wasn’t that big a city, and running into colleagues on weekends happened more often than anyone wanted.
But seeing them huddled together in the corner booth, their phones angled suspiciously, their expressions too eager, sent a prickle of warning down my spine. Jasper and Kyle were the office “funny guys,” the ones whose jokes always had sharp edges that drew blood while everyone else laughed. I’d been on the receiving end of their humor before—comments about single dads, about guys who “couldn’t keep their wives happy,” about men raising daughters alone like it was some kind of handicap.
I’d learned to ignore them, mostly. But their presence here, now, made my stomach clench with dread.
At 2:05 PM, the door opened with a soft chime of bells. Aurora Hayes stepped inside, and something in my chest shifted—not quite recognition, but something close to it. I knew her, sort of. We worked in the same building, rode the same elevator some mornings, passed each other in the hallways with polite nods. I’d seen her eating lunch alone in the cafeteria, always with a book propped open beside her tray, her blonde hair pulled back in a neat bun, her expression peaceful in that way people look when they’re genuinely content with their own company.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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