Darkness didn't descend. It erupted.
The café's lights flickered violently, shadows stretching and twisting across the walls as if they had lives of their own. Milo's heart pounded so hard he could hear it in his ears. The air thickened, heavy with an unspoken weight, and the scent of coffee became sharp, almost unpleasant.
The man in the suit stood frozen, his eyes wide, pupils dilated, staring at some unseen horizon. His lips moved silently, and a faint tremor ran through his body. Milo stepped closer, dread coiling in his stomach.
"Amara… what did I do?" he whispered.
Amara's eyes never left the man. She knelt beside him, hands hovering just above his shoulders. "He sees everything… every possible future. Every choice he could make, every choice he could ruin."
Milo felt his stomach twist. "Can… can he handle that?"
She shook her head, her expression tight. "No. But that isn't the point. Nothing about the Eclipse Blend is meant to be handled."
The man finally spoke, voice trembling yet unnervingly calm: "I… I see them all. Every mistake I could make, every success I could grasp… every life I could ruin without even knowing."
Milo felt a cold sweat prick his brow. "Is he… okay?"
Amara's jaw tightened. "He is, and he isn't. Reality is fraying around him. The café never intended for someone to hold this much knowledge at once. Threads of destiny are unraveling."
The man's hands shook, then clenched. "I… I know what I must do," he said. Without another word, he turned and left, his coat flapping behind him like a dark banner in the wind. The bell above the door jingled once—soft, almost mournful.
Milo staggered back. "He… he's gone?"
Amara rose, her gaze sweeping the room. "Yes. And that is only the beginning."
The café was quieter now, but the silence felt charged. The amber light seemed darker, deeper, almost liquid. Milo could feel it pressing at him, waiting for him to act.
"What do we do?" he asked, voice barely audible.
"Nothing. Not yet," Amara said. She moved behind the counter, picking up a small, black-bound book. She flipped it open, scanning pages filled with names, dates, and notes scribbled in a language Milo didn't recognize. "We observe. We wait. The café will guide us. But," she paused, her gaze cutting to him, "you must understand: this is now your responsibility as well."
Milo's stomach dropped. "Mine?"
Amara nodded. "You created it. You served it. Its consequences are tied to you now. Every ripple that escapes into the world passes through your hands, Milo. You are no longer just an observer."
He felt the weight of the words, heavier than any espresso shot he had ever pulled. Every choice he made from now on would matter—not just for him, but for everyone the café touched.
The bell chimed again. Another customer? Milo's pulse quickened, but he didn't move.
"Do not panic," Amara said sharply. "The café protects those inside… but it does not forgive mistakes. Learn quickly, or the next ripple could be worse."
Milo swallowed hard, gripping the edge of the counter. He could feel the café watching him. Every creak of the floorboards, every whisper of wind outside, every flicker of light seemed deliberate.
The lesson was clear: the café was alive, and it had taken notice of him.
And it would not let him forget.