Song of The Wisp

I sat there for what felt like hours, cradling the stone like it might whisper answers into my skin. But it said nothing. Just that quiet, steady rhythm. As if someone—or something—was still tethered to me through it.

I didn't sleep again.

The morning hit like static.

My alarm buzzed, sharp and stupidly cheerful. I turned it off with more force than necessary and dragged myself still disorientated, into the motions of getting ready. Teeth. Clothes. Coffee.

I couldn't shake the feeling of that dream. The unholy way that shadow twisted, the chill in the air and the smell of rot.

What was that creature..

Outside, the sun was hidden behind thick, dark clouds. The smell of early winter clung to the air.

By the time I reached the shop, Jake was already there, hunched over the counter, trying to get the card reader to stop blinking like it had a grudge.

He glanced up, coffee in hand, brow lifting.

"Well, well," he said, grinning like I hadn't just survived a nightmare. "Look who's alive."

I tried to smile. Failed. "Barely."

Jake cocked his head. "You okay, Ror?"

I hesitated. The truth was tangled in a dream, running from shadows and had amethyst eyes staring at me.
So I said the only thing I could. "Just didn't sleep much."

"Nightmares?"

Something about the way he asked it made me pause. I looked at him—really looked—and for a second I wondered if he knew something. But Jake just sipped his coffee, waiting for an answer like a normal human being.

"...Yeah," I muttered.

"Yikes," he said, wincing in sympathy. "You want the early shift off? I can cover for a bit."

"No. I'm good."
I wasn't. But what else could I say?

The day carried on unfazed by what I felt.

Same faces came in and out the door, same orders made, same coffees brewed.

It's as if time and I were the only ones who knew what really happened.

By the time the sun dipped behind the buildings, my body was running on caffeine and autopilot. The after-hours lull had finally settled into the café, and the clatter of cutlery had been replaced with the low hum of the dishwasher and Els humming off-key to an old 90s playlist.

I untied my apron and tossed it onto the hook behind the counter, scrubbing my hands through my hair like it might shake the sleep deprivation out of me.

"You look like a haunted doll," Els said sweetly from the pastry display, where she was attempting to salvage a crumbling almond tart.

I blinked at her. "Thanks. I was going for 'witchy Victorian ghost girl,' but haunted doll works too."

She laughed—loud and bright, like the kind of sound that makes shadows back off a little.
Then she tilted her head. "You okay, Ror? You've been kinda..." She waved a spoon vaguely in the air. "Floaty. All day."

"I didn't sleep much," I said, not untrue. Not enough.

"Well, we can't have you wandering home like a sleep-deprived waif," she said. "Come over. I made roasted garlic chicken. And before you say no, I already texted your stomach and it RSVP'd yes."