Ethan:
When the door opened and I saw her there, with two coffees in her hands, I thought I was imagining things.
Clara in my office, Clara in my building. Clara crossing this door as if time had not passed.
I'm still processing it, the glass is hot between my fingers. I look at the label.
It's from the café across the street, the same as always. The one she and I frequented when she needed ten minutes of air between impossible meetings.
I take another sip.
The taste is exactly the same as always. Intense. Bitter. Perfectly balanced.
And yet... It tastes different, deeper, more... significant.
I find myself wondering something ridiculous: did they change the recipe? Or does it just taste better because she brought it in?
I watch her as she talks, as she tries to sound casual. She
