Milo barely slept. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the man's vacant stare, the way the café's lights had flickered as if recoiling from what Milo had created. Morning arrived dull and gray, the kind of daylight that felt more like an extension of night than its end. When he finally pushed open the café door, the bell didn't chime. It rattled, as though the metal itself was uneasy.
Amara was already inside, seated at a corner table with a cup of something dark and swirling—nothing Milo recognized from the menu. She didn't look up. "He made his choice," she said. "And now the world adjusts."
Milo swallowed. "What… what happened to him?"
Amara set her cup down slowly. "He quit his job at dawn. Left his family a message. Drove somewhere he hasn't been in years." She tapped the table twice, softly. "Choices multiply when you see too much. You lose sight of the one you actually needed to make."
Guilt tightened around Milo's ribs. "So I ruined his life?"
"No," Amara said, finally meeting his eyes. "But you disrupted it. Now you must understand the consequences."
Before Milo could ask more, the café's lights dimmed. A figure entered—hood up, hands buried in pockets, footsteps heavy and unsteady. Milo tensed instinctively. This wasn't the drifting sadness of yesterday's girl or the frantic energy of the man in the suit. This was different. This was a danger.
The stranger stepped up to the counter, eyes shadowed by the hood. "I know what this place does," he said, voice low. "Someone came out of here yesterday talking nonsense about futures. He said you 'showed him everything.'"
Milo froze.
The stranger leaned forward. "What did you give him?"
Amara spoke before Milo could. "We gave him clarity."
"Clarity?" the man barked. "He drove straight to my doorstep at three in the morning. Told me he knew what would happen if I kept lying to him."
Milo felt the blood drain from his face.
The stranger's voice cracked—not with anger, but with something more fragile. "He… he was my brother. And he looked terrified."
A silence fell heavy across the café.
"He's not wrong," Amara said calmly, though her eyes were sharp. "Truth carries a cost. But so does hiding."
The man shook his head, fists clenched. "He saw something awful. Something about me. He said he had to 'cut ties' before I pulled him into it. He didn't explain."
Milo's mouth went dry. The Eclipse Blend. Too much knowledge. Futures he never should have seen.
"I—I didn't mean—" Milo began.
The man's gaze snapped to him. "You. You served him. Fix it."
Milo froze. "Fix… fate?"
The man slammed his hands on the counter. "I don't care what you call it. I want my brother back."
The walls shuddered. The lights rattled in their fixtures. The café reacted instantly to the man's desperation—responding the way a storm responds to a spark. Amara stood abruptly.
"That's enough," she said sharply. "You cannot demand fate be reversed."
But the café didn't agree.A cup slid across the counter on its own, stopping directly in front of Milo.Empty. Waiting.
Amara's eyes widened. "No."
Milo stared at the cup. "What does it want me to make?"
The café lights flickered once, then steadied—an answer without words.
The man stepped back, breath hitching as he realized the café itself was involved.
Amara whispered, "It wants to test you. It's offering a way… or a warning."
Milo's pulse hammered. Another mistake could be catastrophic—but doing nothing might be worse. He reached for the cup. His fingers hovered over the grinders, the milk, the syrups. Nothing felt right. Nothing felt safe.
Then, faintly, he heard it—a hum beneath the counter.Subtle. Low. Guiding.
He breathed out. "Okay… okay. I'll try."
He began crafting a drink he didn't recognize, pulling shots and mixing ingredients he couldn't name. His hands moved as if following instructions whispered by the café itself. A faint silver glow rose from the cup, soft but steady.
When he placed it on the counter, the stranger stared. "What is it?"
Milo exhaled shakily. "I… don't know."
Amara stepped closer. "A Reconciliation Brew." Her voice held both awe and fear. "Rare. And dangerous."
The man lifted the cup. "Will it fix him?"
"It won't change the past," she said. "But it might show you both what you never understood."
The man hesitated, then drank.
The café went silent.The stranger's hood fell back.And his eyes—once shadowed—filled with a blinding, golden light.