The Apartment Over the Cafe

Sitting in front of her overflowing mug, Lydia flipped through the sketchbook gathering dust in the corner booth. The smudgy pencil lines captured random customers, but this moment felt different from any her eager sketches had ever captured. Danny, the cafe's weekend manager, was shelled around by a sort of alarmed busyness one might confuse with excitement. Even the espresso machine seemed to puff frantically with each press of the button. "Tom didn't show up this morning. No call, nothing," he blurted out, dispensing iced americano on auto-pilot. Lydia smiled sympathetically and shrugged it off. "He probably just freaked with cold brewing again." Her forced laugh didn't quite mask the concern pooling deep in her gut. Tom, her friend and her boss, no-call-no-show? Never. She'd check up. Upstairs was small, but shaded lamps made it cozy. Pictures of wandering souls were taped to fridges under magnet clips — glances into Tom's adventure-infused world. Yet today, Lydia hesitated. Silence filled the empty apartment with stories it wouldn't speak. A hurried note caught her eye. **"L, trust becomes the mystery you keep."** Cryptic and uncharacteristic scribblings. An irritated dust bunny in need of vacuuming taunted her at arm's reach under the couch. She dropped herself down, fingers brushing what her eyes couldn't fathom. On the laminated wood, a small case gleamed, exquisitely camouflaged and lock-bound. Codes she never quite reached spun in the cool evening light. A light tap interrupted this tête-à-tête. Garrett stood at the door. Regular customer, always polite, cup perpetually half full of encouragement. "Got that caramel latte, Lydia? Uh, guessing by your face... maybe later," Garrett said, sweeping away worries. His attempt to lighten the mood fell flat, but they were kindhearted intentions. Lydia let spill what she found, watching as Garrett soaked everything up. "Let me help," he chirped, his eyes catching too many of hers. She relented, even relieved. They tried birthdays, old jokes turned passwords, scans for documentary prints, skimming badly-drawn treasure maps. Yet, the case never yielded. Days, then weeks passed. Lydia carried her mug of concern, garbling stickered sentences as caffeine stained each. Garrett stuck by — customer, intruder, partner now. Champion shoulder-sighers, Lydia and Garrett finally holstered themselves on a southwest booth like twin spies on standby. A familiar stranger strolled in, hair knit and askew, yet face lit despite clear rudeness. Tom. Lydia tried -- goodness knows she did. Tried rebuke, solace, apology, logic, philosophy, a diary of verbs strewn from her churning mind. "What dropped inside? You can't just up and leave!" she nearly shrieked. Tom studied them both, the enigmatic pair feeling small indeed. "I figured you'd find it quicker." His anxious eyes, rough stubble claimed by comic misadventure, each word releasing tension once gone. "I knew you knew how I value... those who treasure things." A beat passed, and they watched Tom unclasp the lock with ease. Inside lay a frozen Polaroid, now thawed, a moving streak of stories. The timestamp speckled their eyes, colors softening sharp lines along with this mystery resolved. A memory, autumn's turn, flashing laughter and spun chocolate tendrils. Lydia shut it with private knowledge; a smile. Garrett raised an eyebrow, leaning close. "So, what's the end of the story then?" Soft green sips burnt her cheek reluctantly. She reframed Garrett's eager curiosity with contemplative phrases. “The truth got embedded deeper than imagined. Old adventures, careful friendships, understanding you spent years believing you wanted true.” Six weary hands interwove, brushing mochas built over passages of time, sharing tales hydrated with chance. Tonight felt enduring, footprints left nonetheless. Lydia sensed it was ready to imprint tale's end amongst friends. Tom smirked knowingly, carrying both memory's tomorrow and yesterday's lips into his comfortably ordinary new promise.