I place my heavy textbooks into my locker before turning to look down the busy hallway. It’s the last day before the week off, and everyone’s taking their time like they’ve got nowhere to be, bags half-packed, stopping every few steps to talk. I don’t have that luxury. I need to make it through the crowd, out the main doors, and to the bus stop down the street in under ten minutes if I don’t want to be late, and my shift starts in forty minutes. To someone else, that might sound impossible, but when you do it every week, you pick up a skill or two.
After closing the locker door and reapplying my lock, I push into the crowd, weaving through it with practised ease. I dodge past the football team messing around in the hall, teachers trying and failing to shut it down, and the cluster of students who’ve stopped just to watch. It’s the same kind of chaos every time, just louder today. I reach the doors, push through, and break into a jog down the road toward the bus stop.
Reaching into the front pouch of my bag, I pull out a dishevelled leather coin pouch, worn from being opened and closed too many times to count. It was a gift from one of my friends at the group home, back when he turned eighteen and left. I turn it over in my hand for a second before pulling out three silver coins, keeping my eyes on the bus as it approaches. It slows as it reaches the stop, letting out a low hiss as the doors open.
I board the bus, dropping the coins into the tray as the driver takes them and presses a button to dispense the ticket. I take it and make my way to the back of the semi-busy bus, steadying myself as it pulls away and continues through town, stopping now and then to let people on or off.
I usually just stare out the window and wait for my stop, but one of the counsellors at the group home told me to try writing things down instead. Said it helps if you don’t want to talk. I’m not sure how true that is, but I brought the book anyway.
I keep it hidden in my bag. If any of the older lot found it, I’d never hear the end of it.
I pull it out now, turning it over in my hands for a second before opening it. The page is blank. Properly blank.
I stare at it for a bit, then press the pen down.
“My name is Theodore. I’m 15.”
I stop, looking at it.
That feels… wrong, somehow.
“To say my life’s been a mess is an understatement.”82Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9HoLCOvEak
I stare out the window before scribbling again.
I had two sisters, Sophia and Emma, and our parents were about the furthest thing from responsible you could get. It often fell to me to handle the day-to-day stuff, making sure they got to school, feeding them, just… taking care of them.
Eventually, Child Protection found out about the neglect and removed us from their care. My grandma took Sophia and Emma, and I was left to rot in a group home.
It’s been an interesting journey since then. I entered when I was seven, and the first few weeks were usually hazing from the older kids. It wasn’t one single thing, more like a collection of small stuff that added up.
Sometimes it was things disappearing overnight. Other times it was just being left out—no one saving you a seat, no one telling you what was going on, or being the last to know about things everyone else already understood. You’d ask a question and get ignored, or answered like it was obvious you should already know.
There were rules too, even if no one ever officially said them out loud. You learned not to speak too much around certain people, not to take certain seats, not to touch things that didn’t feel like they were meant for you. If you got it wrong, someone would correct you, one way or another.
Sometimes it was little tests. Being told to go get something, just to see if you’d do it. Being sent off on errands that didn’t really need doing. Being watched to see how you reacted, whether you pushed back or just went along with it.
And then there were the quieter things. The way conversations would go silent when you walked in. The way people looked through you instead of at you. The way you could be in a room full of people and still feel completely on your own.
I learned quickly that keeping anything to yourself wasn’t really an option. If you had something worth taking, it wouldn’t stay yours for long.
I let out a quiet sigh.
The older kids weren’t all bad, though. Most of them stopped the new kids from getting it worse than they already were. They helped you keep your things safe when they could, told you how things worked, and made sure you didn’t end up on the wrong side of things without knowing why.
I try to keep that going now too.82Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjowrR9yPk9
I glance back up as the bus rolls closer to my stop, Radcliffe Plaza, a small, quiet shopping centre. The café I work at is just across from it. I reach up and press the red stop button, and the bus pulls in with a hiss before coming to a stop.
I close the book, slip it back into my bag, and move toward the front. The doors open, and I step off onto the pavement.
I head over and pull the door open, the bell above it ringing softly as I step inside.
The café is already busy—voices overlapping, cups clinking, the low hum of machines filling the space.
“Oh, Theo—are you on today?” Matthew calls from behind the counter. He’s pressing the coffee tamper down into a portafilter, focused but still glancing my way.
“Yeah,” I reply, adjusting my bag. “I was supposed to start at 4:30, but Lora called in sick, so Phil said I need to be here for 4.”
Matthew lets out a breath. “Yeah, everyone’s been calling out. I’ve been the only one here since I took over from Janete.”
I nod, not really surprised. It’s been like that lately.
I nod and head through to the back, making my way to the lockers. I open mine and pull out my formal trousers, white shirt, and shoes, setting them neatly aside before stepping into the employee bathroom. I lock the door behind me and quickly change into my work clothes, folding my old ones back into my bag so nothing gets left out.
When I come back out, I adjust the cuffs of my shirt, place my bag back into my locker and pull my apron on before heading back onto the floor.
The café has quieted slightly, though it’s still busy enough to keep things moving. Matt is plating a croissant from the display onto a small plate when I walk past.
“Have you had your break yet?” I ask.
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “Was going to take it once Lora got in.”
“Go now,” I tell him. “I’ll bring that out.”
He lets out a small sigh of relief, nods, and heads into the back, grabbing a few pastries from the cabinet on the way.
I turn back to the counter, pick up the prepared tray, and make my way out to table twelve. I keep my pace steady, balancing the tray carefully as I walk, and set everything down with a quick apology for the wait before moving on to the next table.
The afternoon coffee rush is usually a nightmare, but with only two baristas on the floor, it was hell incarnate. By the time seven o’clock rolls around, we’re both exhausted, barely keeping it together.
“Go on,” I say to Matt, “we shouldn’t have many more in now.”
He nods and heads into the back as I pour myself a simple latte, the steam rising as I sip it slowly with a quiet sigh.
The hours between seven and nine twenty-five drag by in a kind of stillness. I end up standing by the window more often than not, watching the same bus pass by for what feels like its hundredth loop around the area. It isn’t actually—but it might as well be.
That’s when something catches my eye.
Between the café and the shopping plaza’s car park sits a small park, one that’s usually empty thanks to the better one inside the centre. Most days, no one even goes near it.
Today isn’t one of those days.
There’s someone in there.
At first, I can’t make them out clearly, but as I watch, it becomes obvious—it’s a teenager, no older than me, wearing a pair of overalls, climbing the frame and sliding down the slide like he’s a kid a decade younger.
If it wasn’t so strange, I might have found it amusing.
I shrug it off.
Closing the till, I head into the back and grab the company tablet from its stand before sinking onto the break room sofa. I open it, log into my account, and put on a video, letting it fill the silence as I settle in.
For now, everything is calm.
If no more customers come in, I can coast through to closing without another thought.
And that’s what I thought as I watched the clock slowly creep toward ten o’clock.
At 9:35, the sound of the door’s bell makes me jump.
I push myself off the sofa and head into the main room, where a man stands—around his mid-thirties, maybe early forties—dressed in a formal outfit.
“I didn’t know if you were still open or not. Are you?”
“Yes, we’re still open, but only for takeout.”
“Of course,” he says, glancing up at the menu. As he does, I notice something glint between the gap of his shoulder and chest. He lowers his head again, looking at me.
“I’ll take an iced latte. This heat is unbearable—and it’s even worse at night.”
I press the button for an iced latte on the register, watching as he turns slightly.
Behind him stands the boy from earlier.
I was right.
He looks no older than sixteen, wearing overalls now stained with dirt and soil, Winnie the Pooh stitched into the fabric. He blushes heavily, clearly trying to make himself smaller, to hide.
For a second, I think about it—someone his age walking around in something like that, holding onto something so childish.
It feels… odd.
But I’m too tired to really care about it beyond that.
“Sorry about that,” the man says. “He’ll have a caramel frappé—without the espresso.”
I hear a small grunt from the boy, something that sounds like a quiet tantrum, but I brush it off and get to work.
I place the grounded portafilter into the machine and press the button, watching as the espresso pours into the cup.
Carefully, I prepare both drinks.
For the frappé, I grab a blender, adding ice, milk, sugar, and caramel sauce before blending it smooth. For the iced latte, I add ice to the cup, pour in the hot espresso, then top it with cold milk.
I finish both drinks, topping the frappé with whipped cream and caramel before setting them down.
“That’ll be $10.65 when you’re ready,” I say, holding out the card reader.
He taps his phone against it.
“Thank you. Have a good evening.”
I nod as he takes two straws, turns, and leaves, handing the frappé to the boy as he opens the door and steps out.
For a moment, I just stand there.
I feel like I recognise him—but I can’t place where from.
I shake it off.
Tiredness.
I turn off the espresso machine, flip the open sign to closed, and lock the door before starting my closing routine.
That’s when I notice it.
A business card sitting in the tips jar.
It’s blank on one side, except for a single scribbled line:
“Call Us :) — 121-555-0108”
I stare at it.
Did they leave it?
It must have been a mistake.
I shrug it off, empty the register into the safe, set the alarm, and leave through the back door, locking it behind me as I toss the trash into the dumpster.
I plan to call them quickly—tell them they left the card—and then head to the bus.
I usually take whatever pastries didn’t sell that day home as a treat.
I walk over to the payphone, lift the receiver, and pull a few coins from my pouch, feeding them into the slot before punching in the number.
The phone rings.
I hear a click on the other side of the receiver, followed by a careful, measured hello.
“Hi, I’m from the café earlier. I think you might’ve left your number behind by—”
“No mistake at all,” the voice interrupts.
I pause.
“I was told by an old friend to give you my number,” he continues, calm and certain. “And I have a proposition for you.”
“What kind of proposition?” I ask.
“It’s better we discuss that in person. Do you know where Nelson Tower is?”
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s in the business district, isn’t it?”
“It is. Tomorrow—Saturday—are you working?”
“No. Why?”
“Come by around ten. Tell reception you’re here to see Elliot.”
There’s a small pause.
“Okay,” I say, a little more hesitant this time.
“Good. I’ll be expecting you.”
The line goes dead.
I lower the receiver slowly, staring at it for a second longer than I probably need to.
An old friend.
A proposition.
I don’t know what any of that’s supposed to mean.
I hang up and turn toward the bus stop, the thought sitting somewhere in the back of my mind, not quite settling into anything solid yet.
I’m not even sure why I agreed.
ns216.73.216.98da2
and then Add to home screen.