The café felt heavier when Milo returned from the Loom. Sunlight streamed through amber windows, but the warmth did little to soothe the weight pressing on him. Each cup he had served today, each thread he had touched, lingered like shadows across his mind. He had survived, yes, but at a cost he could almost feel pulsing through his chest.
Amara was behind the counter, polishing cups, her movements fluid, her expression calm yet unreadable. "You did well," she said softly. "Better than I expected."
Milo sat across from her, letting the hum of the café settle his thoughts. "I didn't do it alone," he said. "It wasn't about control—it was about understanding. About letting fate guide me, rather than forcing it."
Amara's storm-gray eyes softened. "A barista doesn't make destiny. They serve it. And you've done that. But the Loom is vast, and your next step… is a choice of your own."
He glanced at the notebooks stacked neatly on the counter, filled with advice, warnings, and reminders. Every page seemed to pulse with possibility and consequence. He realized that he had power—but he also had limits. He could see, feel, and guide, but he could not bend fate to his will.
"I… can't stay," Milo whispered. "I've done my part. It's time I return to my life."
Amara's eyes held a glimmer of understanding. "Balance doesn't require permanence. Only attentiveness. You've proven you can provide that—even briefly."
The quiet of the café was almost too loud as Milo absorbed her words. He had touched the edges of destiny and returned intact. Yet he could feel the tension in the air, a reminder that the Eclipse Blend had changed more than just the threads he touched—it had started to ripple outward, beyond the café walls.