A story of glimpses, time, and belonging
Every morning, Mira wiped down the counter of Café Hiraeth, humming to herself before the first customer arrived. It was a small, sleepy shop, with more quiet than conversation.
One Tuesday, as she cleared a table, she noticed a faint pencil sketch inside an empty cup — a drawing of a woman standing by the window, holding a red umbrella. It looked oddly familiar.
Two hours later, rain poured down. Mira stood by the window, waiting for a lull before heading home. In her hand — a red umbrella.
She laughed it off as coincidence.
But the next day, another cup returned with a sketch: her wiping a spilled cappuccino. An hour later, it happened exactly that way.
Soon, every used cup had a glimpse of her future — a spilled drink, a smile exchanged, a tear she hadn't cried yet. The drawings were never wrong.
One evening, she found a cup left behind after closing time. Inside was a new sketch — herself sitting alone at the counter, the café lights off, staring at a single cup. The caption beneath read:
"Last coffee served."
She froze.
No customers came the next day. The cups stayed blank.
That night, she made herself one final latte, sat by the counter, and watched the empty chairs.
When she finished, she looked inside her own cup — and found a faint sketch forming.
A smile.
And the word: "Remembered."
.
