* The Interference *
"Amara!"
Madam Celine's voice cracked through the haze like a whip.
She was already striding from behind the counter, her heels clicking hard against the tiled floor.
"What nonsense is this?" she barked. "I said serve the customer, not flirt with him!"
The man's grip on Amara's throat loosened just enough for her to gasp. She stumbled back, clutching her neck, eyes wide with disbelief and fear.
Celine stopped in front of the man, planting both hands on her hips. "Look, mister, I don't know what game you think you're playing, but you don't manhandle my girls in here unless you're paying double." Her voice dripped with sarcasm, but there was an edge of unease underneath.
The man didn't respond. He sat there again, silent, his expression unreadable. Water from his hair dripped onto the counter.
Celine's irritation deepened. "Can you even hear me?" she snapped, slapping her palm against the table. "What's your name? Are you drunk?"
He slowly lifted his head, and for the first time, spoke.
His voice was deep, rough, as if he hadn't used it in years.
> "I said I needed… water."
Just that.
The two women froze.
Celine blinked. "Water? That's it?" She scoffed, turning to Amara. "See? You nearly caused a scene for nothing. Go and get him a glass before he changes his mind."
Amara nodded weakly, her fingers still pressed against her throat. She moved toward the shelves, but her eyes never left him. He was staring straight ahead now, unmoving again, only his fingers tapping faintly against the wood, like a pulse searching for rhythm.
Celine rolled her eyes. "Men and their drama," she muttered, then turned away, already pulling out her phone to check messages.
Amara placed the glass of water before him, careful not to touch his hand again. He reached for it slowly, his fingers brushing the rim and she noticed how the condensation on the glass froze where he touched it, a fine mist of frost spreading like veins across the surface.
Her breath caught.
Celine didn't see it.
But Amara did.
And she knew, in that instant, whatever this man was, he didn't belong to this night… or maybe, not even to this world.
* The Stranger's Farewell *
He lifted the glass slowly, his gaze still distant as if he wasn't seeing them, or even the room. Amara's breath caught as the rim of the glass brushed his lips.
He drank.
One long, silent gulp.
The moment the glass touched the table again, a faint mist spiraled from his fingers, frost spreading in thin veins across the surface. Amara's eyes widened, but Madam Celine didn't notice; she was already checking her phone, muttering something about closing time.
The man reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a folded note and then another, and another. Thick bundles. He dropped them on the counter beside the half-frozen glass. The sound echoed, too heavy, too real for just money.
He rose. The chair screeched lightly against the tiles as he pushed it back.
Amara instinctively stepped aside to give him space, watching as he moved toward the door, his steps slow but strangely fluid, like a shadow gliding rather than walking. The bell above the door chimed as he left, then swayed once, twice… and fell silent.
"Hey!" Madam Celine's sharp voice cut in. She was already at the counter, snatching up the money. "Now this….this is what I call a real customer." She flipped through the crisp notes, her tone shifting from surprise to greed. "For just a glass of water? Ha! This man must be loaded. Should be coming here every night if he pays like this."
Amara said nothing. Her eyes remained on the door, the faint echo of his steps still whispering in her mind.
Celine glanced at her. "What's wrong with you, eh? You've been staring since he left. What do you want….his number?" She snorted, shaking her head. "You should focus on your work, Amara. Clean up this place and go home. You said your brother's waiting, remember?"
Amara flinched at the reminder. She wanted to snap, to remind Celine she wasn't her mother but she held it in. Instead, she picked up a rag and began wiping the tables quietly. The frost had melted now, leaving small pools of water where his fingers had rested.
She swept the floor, cleared the glasses, hung her apron on its hook. Celine was still humming greedily behind her, counting and recounting the notes as if afraid they'd disappear.
When everything was finally spotless, Amara grabbed her small bag, slung it over her shoulder, and stepped out into the cold night.
The streets were mostly empty now. She wrapped her shawl tighter and began the long walk home.
But even as she walked, her mind stayed behind, with that lifeless man, those cold eyes, and that frost that had formed where warmth should've been.
Something about him felt wrong.
Something about him felt… familiar.
And Amara couldn't stop wondering if this night had just changed everything.
* The Knock at Midnight *
Raymond sat restless on the old armchair, his knee bouncing in rhythm with his heartbeat. The room was quiet except for the ticking of the wall clock and the soft hum of the refrigerator. His eyes darted from the clock to the window, then back to the door.
11:56 PM.
He tapped his foot again tap, tap, tap ... .a nervous beat against the cold cement floor. Chris, half-asleep on the worn couch, stirred each time his head bobbed forward and snapped back.
Raymond checked his wristwatch again, sighed, and muttered under his breath.
"She should have been back by now."
He tried to sit still, but the worry pressed too heavy on him. Finally, he leaned forward, rubbing his palms together. Then he reached out and tapped Chidi on the shoulder.
Chidi jerked awake. "Uh….Raymond? Any problem?"
Raymond exhaled sharply. "I can't take this anymore. It's been more than thirty-five minutes since we said we'd wait. Look" He pointed to the clock. "It's almost midnight. I can't just sit here knowing your sister's still out there."
Chris blinked the sleep from his eyes. "You… you want to go look for her?"
"Yes," Raymond said firmly. "You stay here. Lock the door behind me."
"But….."
"No. I'll be fine," Raymond interrupted. "If she gets back while I'm gone, tell her not to worry."
He rose from the chair, grabbed his jacket from the table, and walked toward the door. The night air outside was calm now, the rain had stopped, leaving only the soft dripping from the roof.
As his hand wrapped around the cold metal handle, a faint rustle came from the other side. He froze.
Then the handle turned at the same time.
Startled, Raymond quickly pushed the door open….
….and stopped dead in his tracks.
Standing right there, drenched and pale, was Amara.
Her hair clung to her face, her apron half-folded in her bag, her eyes distant as though her mind wasn't entirely there. For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke.
Then she managed a faint smile. "Raymond…?" Her voice was low, almost trembling. "When did you get back?"
Raymond blinked, his shock melting into relief. "Amara! I was about to come looking for you! It's past eleven….where have you been?"
She looked past him, into the dimly lit room where Chris was rubbing his eyes, waking up. But her gaze wasn't focused on them; it was far away, as though she'd left part of herself somewhere out in the dark.
"Amara," Raymond repeated softly, "you okay?"
She nodded slowly, forcing a small smile. "Yeah… I'm fine. Just… a long night."
Amara stood there, drenched, her hair plastered to her face, her shoulders trembling slightly from the long walk under the rain. For a brief second, she smiled faintly.
"Raymond…?" Her voice came out tired, soft. "When did you get back?"
Relief washed over him. "Just tonight. I was about to come looking for you."
She gave a small nod, her eyes heavy with fatigue. "I'm fine. It's just been… a long night."
As she stepped inside, water dripped steadily from her clothes, forming small puddles on the cracked floor. Raymond closed the door behind her, but before he could even turn, Amara swayed.
"Hey hey, easy!" he said, rushing forward. She nearly collapsed, but he caught her just in time, his arm wrapping around her before she hit the floor. Her body felt cold and light, like she could break apart from exhaustion.
"Come on," he murmured, steadying her. "Let's get you to your room."
He guided her gently through the narrow hallway into the small bedroom. The dim lamp flickered on the table, casting tired shadows against the walls. He helped her sit on the edge of the bed.
"You're soaked through," Raymond said, glancing at the bucket in the corner. "You need to wash up before you catch a cold."
Amara sighed, pressing a hand to her forehead. "There's… no light," she muttered weakly.
Raymond looked toward the kitchen. "You still have gas in the cooker?"
"Just a little," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Good enough," he replied, standing. "I'll boil some water. You need to bathe, Amara."
He left the room for a few minutes, the sound of clattering pots and running water echoing softly through the house. When he came back, the steam from the bucket trailed faintly behind him.
"I've set everything up," he said. "Can you… do this yourself? Or do you need help?"
Amara's tired eyes opened, the lamplight reflecting in them. Her voice came out calm but firm.
"No," she said. "Thank you for your help, but I don't think you should help me. I got this, okay?"
Raymond hesitated for a moment, then nodded, offering a small smile. "Alright. Just… don't stay too long there. You need rest."
As he stepped out, closing the door gently behind him, Amara sat quietly for a while, the only sound was the faint ticking of the clock in the next room.