Song of The Wisp

The morning light shining brightly through the café windows does nothing to soothe my aching head and the burn behind my eyes, as I continue wiping tables in preparation for lunch service.
"Haven't seen you this distracted since you first dated that bloke in high school," a familiar voice calls from behind me.

I blink and turn around, meeting a pair of sharp blue eyes sparkling beneath a cloud of soft brown curls.

"You've nearly wiped the paint off that table," Els says, arching a brow.

"Sorry, Els," I murmur. "I was miles away."

Els was one of Mum's closest friends here in Pine Creek—warm, tough, and the only adult who's ever really managed to handle me. She's the owner and manager of the café, and the first to suggest I get a job here "to learn to stand on my own two feet," as she put it.
I was seventeen then.
I'm nearly twenty-one now.
Still here. Still stuck.

"Ror..." she says softly, her voice dipping into concern. "How are you holding up, love? Is there anything you need? You know all you have to do is say the word."

Her kindness makes something in my chest pinch.

"I'm alright," I lie, offering a small smile. "Just tired. That's all."

She doesn't push—just gives my arm a gentle squeeze before returning to the counter, where the espresso machine hisses and sputters like it's got something to say.

"Don't go vanishing into your head again," she calls over her shoulder. "It's Saturday. We'll be packed by noon."

I nod and busy myself, refilling sugar jars, folding napkins, pretending I don't feel the weight pressing behind my eyes again.

And that's when I see him.

Theo.

Sitting in his usual spot—corner table by the window, sketchpad out, coffee going cold.
He's been coming here for years. Always with that same quiet, thoughtful energy. The kind of guy who probably writes poetry in the margins of receipts and forgets his umbrella when it rains.
He looks up just as I glance his way.

And smiles.

Not one of those half-polite café smiles.
But a soft, genuine one. Like I'm a page he's read a thousand times and still finds worth rereading.

I smile back—polite, quick—and turn away before it lingers too long.
There's still work to do.
The lunch crowd thickens, orders come and go. Dishes pile up.

By the time Els slips me a sandwich and waves me off for break, I feel the ache all the way through my bones.

"You're done for the day after this, love," she says, squeezing my shoulder. "Go home. Rest. Maybe do something that doesn't involve a mop or a burnt scone."

I nod gratefully, scarf down the sandwich at the side counter, and trade my apron for my coat.

The streets are quieter now—most of the lunch rush gone, the late shoppers still tucked away somewhere warmer.
I tug my coat tighter around me and duck my head as I round the corner.

That's when I nearly collide with someone coming from the opposite direction.

"Should've put a bell on you," I mutter, stepping back, startled.

"Hey—I was walking perfectly straight. You veered," Theo says, flashing a grin.

I let out an awkward breath of laughter as we both bend down at the same time.

His sketchpad had already slipped from under his arm and dropped to the pavement. A few loose pages had tumbled out, caught briefly in the breeze before fluttering down.