He did come in at seven-thirty. Right on the dot.
By then, I was already moving through the rhythm of the morning, the line of empty cups waiting in front of me, each one part of a sequence my hands had learned without needing to think. Milk steamed, espresso poured, lids snapped into place, everything blending into that steady, familiar pace that left little room for anything else.
I was aware of him the moment he stepped inside, not because I was looking, but because I had started to notice when something in the pattern settled into place. It wasn't distracting, not enough to pull me out of what I was doing, just a quiet awareness sitting somewhere at the edge of it.
"Katherine, can you grab the two oat lattes, please?" Janie called, sliding the cups toward me as she moved past.
"Got it." I replied, picking them up without breaking the flow, finishing them quickly before passing them across to a man dressed entirely in grey, offering him a small, easy smile as he thanked me and stepped aside.
By the time he moved away, I was already reaching for the next cup.
Tall. Hot water, filled all the way this time.
No hesitation, no second guessing, just the quiet correction settling into place as part of the routine.
"Americano. No room."
I placed it on the counter beside me, the words coming as naturally as the movement itself, already turning back toward the machine as the next order began to line up in front of me.
He stepped forward, taking the cup with the same controlled ease he always carried, his presence never interrupting the rhythm, just moving through it.
For a brief moment, his gaze settled on me.
Not long enough to linger, not short enough to miss.
Then he gave the same small nod, almost imperceptible unless you were paying attention, and turned away, folding back into the movement of the café as though he had never stepped out of it at all.
And just as quickly as it happened, the moment passed, carried forward by everything else that continued without pause, leaving nothing behind except the quiet sense that something had been noticed, even if it hadn't been acknowledged.
***
Later that afternoon, I found myself sitting in front of the metal box again, the quiet of the apartment settling around me in a way that felt heavier than it had earlier, as though the stillness itself was waiting for me to decide what to do next. I knew I couldn't keep approaching this the same way, pulling out letters at random and letting whatever I found dictate how the evening unfolded, because that had only ever led me in circles I couldn't get out of.
I took a slow breath before lifting the lid, the faint metallic sound breaking the silence just enough to ground me in the moment.
There had to be a system to this, something that would keep me steady, something that wouldn't let me get pulled too far ahead of myself before I understood where I was standing.
My hands moved before the thought had fully formed, but the decision settled quickly enough that it felt intentional all the same, as I began separating the letters into three distinct piles, placing them carefully in front of me, Mum, Dad, and Christian, so that for once, I could move through them in a way that I chose, rather than reacting to whatever surfaced first.
It didn't take long to recognise which was which, the differences in their handwriting as familiar to me as their voices had once been, my mum's notes neat and measured, every line placed exactly where it should be, folded with care, my dad's rougher around the edges, corners bent or slightly torn as though they had been handled without much thought, while Chris's were unmistakable in their messiness, ink uneven, pages creased from being shoved into pockets, some marked with faint stains that made it impossible not to picture the exact moment they had been written.
And for the first time since finding the box, the sight of them all laid out in front of me didn't overwhelm me in the same way, didn't pull me under before I had the chance to steady myself, because this time I wasn't reacting to them, I was choosing how to approach them, moving through the piles with a kind of quiet control that hadn't been there before.
I wanted to read more, all of them if I could, to keep going until something fully made sense, but the time slipped through my awareness just enough to remind me that I had plans, that there was somewhere else I needed to be, something outside of this that I had already said yes to.
Still, I had time for one.
My hand hovered briefly before moving toward my dad's pile, not entirely sure what I was looking for but hoping, instinctively, for something that felt a little more grounded, something that might steady me before I stepped away from it all for the evening, though as I unfolded the page and my eyes landed on the first line, I realised almost immediately that it wasn't meant for me at all, and that alone was enough to pull me in further as I shifted slightly, drawing my notebook closer without quite realising I had done it, preparing myself to read something I wasn't sure I was supposed to see.
Chris,
I'm writing this instead of saying it out loud, and I need you to take that seriously.
It's not about being overly cautious. It's just better this way. Things don't get repeated or picked up where they shouldn't.
I've noticed the questions you've been asking about the case your mum and I are working on. You haven't said much, but I know how your mind works. You don't ask things unless you've already started connecting them.
I'm not going into details.
What I will say is this, the situation isn't as straightforward as it looks. On paper, it is. That's the point. But when you look closer, it doesn't quite hold together.
There are gaps. Not big ones, but enough that you notice them if you start looking beyond what you're meant to.
Your mum has picked up on it. She thinks we're only seeing part of something bigger.She might be right, but that doesn't mean it's ours to get into.
We're close to the point where asking more questions stops being part of the job and starts becoming something else.
And once you cross that line, you don't really control what comes next.
I can see where your thinking is heading. I'd rather you didn't follow it all the way through.
You don't need to look into this. Sometimes leaving something as it is, that's the right call.
- Dad
I set the letter down slowly, my fingers lingering against the edge of the paper for a moment longer than necessary as the weight of it settled somewhere deeper than I had expected, not sharp or overwhelming, but steady enough to make it impossible to ignore. None of it was new, not really, I had already begun to understand that my parents had been asking questions they weren't supposed to, that they had stepped just far enough outside of what they had been brought in to do for something to shift, but reading it like this, in his words, made it feel more defined, more deliberate in a way I couldn't undo.
Mum and Dad had been looking in the wrong places.
Or maybe, the right ones.
The thought stayed with me as I leaned back slightly, my gaze drifting over the three piles in front of me, no longer just letters, but something closer to pieces of a structure I was only beginning to understand, though the shape of it still felt incomplete, still just out of reach.
But I didn't have time to sit with it. Not tonight.
The awareness came quietly, but firmly enough to pull me back from it, from the instinct to keep going, to reach for the next letter and the next after that until something finally made sense.
I pushed the box closed, not abruptly, but with intention, like I was choosing to step away rather than being forced to, before standing and moving toward the bathroom, letting the shift in space, in routine, pull me out of the spiral I hadn't quite fallen into this time.
The water was warm, steady, grounding in a way that made it easier to let my thoughts settle into something quieter, something less urgent, even if they didn't disappear entirely, lingering somewhere beneath the surface as I stepped out and caught my reflection in the mirror.
For a moment, I just looked at myself.
There was something tired in it, something slightly unsteady, like I hadn't quite caught up to where I was meant to be, my features softer than usual, less put together than I would have liked to admit.
Not broken, but not entirely present either.
I reached for the towel, drying my hair before pulling the dryer toward me, letting the familiar motion guide me as I worked through it slowly, smoothing it out before curling the ends, watching as the strands fell into place just above my waist, softer, more intentional than they had been before.
It was a small thing, but it shifted something.
By the time I reached for my makeup, my movements felt steadier, more deliberate, the light brown shadow settling across my lids, the thin line of black eyeliner sharpening my gaze just enough to bring something clearer back into it, something more defined.
More like me. Or at least, closer to it.
I slipped into a black dress, simple but intentional, the fabric settling against me in a way that made me stand a little straighter, not because it changed anything, but because it gave me something to step into, something that felt separate from the version of myself I had been sitting with only moments before.
And when I looked at my reflection again, it wasn't that everything was different. It was that it wasn't the same.
The grief was still there, the questions hadn't gone anywhere.
But they weren't the only things I could see anymore.
And as I stepped away from the mirror, reaching for my bag, the quiet awareness followed me, not heavy, not overwhelming, just present enough to remind me that whatever I was stepping into next, it wasn't just about leaving something behind.
It was about choosing, even if only for a few hours, to be something other than the person trying to hold all of it together.
***
The restaurant was louder than I expected, the kind of place that didn't try to quiet itself down, where conversations overlapped and slipped into each other without apology, where glasses clinked and chairs scraped and no one seemed to mind any of it, and for a moment, just standing there, I let it settle around me, the noise and movement softening something that had been sitting too tightly in my chest all day.
It felt… alive.
Zariah was already halfway through a story by the time I reached the table, her hands moving as much as her words, something about a rehearsal that had gone completely off track, though I only caught fragments of it as I slipped into my seat, Elliott already sliding a glass toward me without needing to ask.
"You're late." he said, though there was no weight behind it, his tone easy, familiar.
"I'm not," I replied, pulling my jacket off and settling into the chair, letting out a small breath as I did. "You're early."
"That's not how time works," Zariah cut in, barely pausing for breath before pointing at me, her attention shifting fully now. "Also, what is this?"
I blinked, caught slightly off guard. "What is what?"
"This," she repeated, gesturing vaguely at me, at my face, my posture, something she couldn't quite name but clearly saw anyway. "You look… different."
Elliott leaned back slightly, studying me in a way that felt quieter, less obvious, but somehow more precise, his gaze lingering just long enough to take something in before he spoke.
"She does," he said after a second. "Not bad different. Just… less like she's about to apologise for existing."
A small breath left me, something between a huff and a laugh, as I reached for the menu mostly to give myself something to focus on.
"I don't do that."
"You absolutely do," Zariah said immediately, like she'd been waiting for me to deny it. "All the time. It's kind of your thing."
"That's not my thing."
"It was," Elliott added calmly, taking a sip of his drink without looking away for too long. "Past tense."
I glanced up at that, something in the way he said it catching just slightly, settling somewhere I couldn't quite place.
"Was?"
He gave a small shrug, like it wasn't a big observation, like he hadn't meant to land it as firmly as it did. "You just seem… I don't know. More here."
Zariah nodded quickly, leaning forward again. "Yes. That. You're actually sitting with us instead of being somewhere else in your head."
The instinct to deflect came quickly, automatic, something I had relied on for years without thinking, but this time it didn't land the same way, and I paused just long enough to feel it.
Because they weren't wrong, not entirely.
"I've just been busy." I said instead, which wasn't a lie, but wasn't the whole truth either.
"Busy doing what?" Zariah asked, her tone still light but her attention sharpening, just enough to make it clear she wasn't asking idly. "Making moves so Americano guy finally talks to you?"
"His name is Maximilian," I said, the words slipping out easily, before I had a chance to weigh them, before I could decide if I wanted to say them at all. "And I'm not making moves."
Zariah's brows lifted, her gaze flicking briefly toward Elliott before settling back on me, something quietly amused settling in her expression.
"Oh, is it now?"
The pause that followed was small, but noticeable, just enough for me to feel it, for the ease of what I'd said to catch up with me in a way I hadn't expected.
Elliott leaned back slightly, studying me with quiet interest, his expression thoughtful rather than amused.
"You didn't hesitate." he noted.
I reached for my glass, more to give my hands something to do than anything else, letting my gaze drop for a moment as I tried to smooth it over.
"It's just his name," I said, softer this time, the explanation feeling thinner as I spoke it. "We hear it when we call orders."
Even as I said it, I knew it wasn't true in the way I wanted it to be.
Zariah hummed, unconvinced but not pushing, letting the moment sit just long enough to register before leaning back again, picking up her drink.
"Maximilian," she repeated lightly, as if testing it. "That's… a lot more personality than Americano."
A small breath left me, something close to a smile, though it didn't quite settle into one.
"I've just been looking into some things." I added, shifting the conversation before it could stay there any longer, my fingers tracing the edge of the menu without really reading it.
Elliott's gaze shifted slightly, not interrupting, not pushing, but noting all the same, his expression saying enough without needing to voice it.
"What kind of things?" he asked.
I exhaled slowly, choosing my words more carefully this time, aware now of how easily something could slip out if I wasn't paying attention.
"My parents' work," I said. "The stuff they used to do."
Zariah's expression softened, not dramatically, but enough that I noticed, the brightness in her eyes settling into something more attentive, more present.
"Okay," she said, not rushing, not filling the space. "And?"
"It's just…" I trailed off briefly, searching for a way to explain it without opening everything, without letting it spill into something I couldn't pull back. "There are parts of it that don't really make sense. Things that look straightforward until you actually try to understand them."
Elliott nodded slightly, like that tracked, like he could follow that without needing more.
"That's most industries," he said. "They're all a bit messy if you look too closely."
"Yeah," I agreed quietly, a small breath leaving me. "But this feels… intentional."
That was as far as I let it go.
Zariah tilted her head slightly, watching me in that way she had, the one that felt less like curiosity and more like she was putting pieces together without asking for them.
"Intentional how?" she asked.
I shook my head lightly, my gaze dropping back to the table for a moment. "I don't know yet."
And that was the truth.
A quiet pause settled over the table, not uncomfortable, just… held, like something had been placed there without needing to be picked apart.
Then Zariah leaned back, exhaling through her nose as she reached for her glass, letting the moment loosen.
"Well," she said, her tone shifting just slightly, not dismissing it, just… adjusting it, bringing things back to something easier. "You've definitely upgraded from overthinking your life choices to full investigative energy. I respect it."
I let out a small laugh despite myself. "That's not what this is."
"No?" she raised a brow. "Because from where I'm sitting, you've got the look."
"The look?"
"Yeah," she nodded. "The 'I'm about to connect dots that may or may not ruin my peace' look."
Elliott snorted softly into his drink.
"That's very specific."
"I'm very observant," she shot back, before her gaze returned to me again, softer this time, but no less direct. "Just… don't go full conspiracy board on us, okay? I don't have the patience to sit through that."
"I'm not," I said, though I wasn't entirely sure that was true, the uncertainty sitting quietly beneath the words.
Elliott set his glass down, his expression thoughtful now, more grounded than before.
"You don't seem like you're spiraling," he said. "Which is new."
I met his gaze briefly, something in that landing more solidly than I expected.
"I'm not." I said again, more certain this time.
And for once, it felt true.
Zariah watched me for a second longer, like she was deciding whether to push further, whether to follow the thread I hadn't fully given her, before letting it go just as easily as she had picked it up, reaching for the menu again and tapping it lightly against the table.
"Good," she said simply. "Then we're ordering food before Elliott starts philosophising about structure and meaning again."
"I do not do that."
"You absolutely do."
And just like that, the moment shifted again, folding back into something lighter, something easier, the conversation slipping forward without forcing anything open that I wasn't ready to share, the noise of the restaurant filling the space between us once more as though nothing had changed, except, quietly, something had.