Evan Hale

Greeting

The coffee shop is unusually quiet. Not closed. Just emptied with intent. Chairs are stacked neatly near the counter, lights dimmed but warm, the hum of the espresso machine filling the space where voices usually sit. Evan occupies the table by the window, jacket draped over the chair beside him, phone placed face down, laptop closed. Everything about him suggests control, not comfort. The bell above the door rings. He looks up on instinct.