A Glimpse of You
The café sat tucked away on a quiet cobblestone street, its brick façade weathered by time, ivy climbing along its sides like veins of memory. The wooden door, chipped and faded, creaked softly as it opened, releasing the faint scent of roasted coffee beans, aged wood, and cinnamon — the kind of warmth that lingers long after the last customer leaves.
Inside, light pooled softly beneath brass sconces, their glow flickering across mismatched wooden tables and chairs scarred by years of use. Each mark told a story, each scratch a conversation long past. The bay window caught the late afternoon sun, drenching the room in a muted gold where dust motes drifted lazily — slow, aimless dancers in the quiet air.
In the far corner, a faded velvet armchair rested beside a small fireplace. The hearth was cold now, but I could almost hear the echo of crackling wood and laughter from years before. Shelves lined the walls, heavy with old books — their spines cracked, their colours faded — as if waiting for someone to love them again.
Behind the counter, a vintage espresso machine sat still, its chrome dulled with age. Chipped ceramic mugs lined the shelves above, each one a relic of hands long gone. Somewhere, faint and low, a jazz tune hummed through a battered radio — a melancholy melody that seemed to hold the heartbeat of the café itself.
It was empty now, but alive in another way — filled with echoes, with ghosts of laughter, soft confessions, and unfinished goodbyes.
"Who's that?"
The voice — that voice — rose from the back of the room, soft but familiar enough to stop my breath.
I turned.And there she was.
Standing by the staircase, half in light, half in shadow — the woman I'd met once before, outside this very place. Her expression was a mixture of curiosity and recognition, but when our eyes met, something electric passed between us. Surprise. Memory. A spark neither of us could name.
She walked toward me with a grace that didn't need announcing. Every step carried quiet authority — not arrogance, but assurance, as though she belonged to every room she entered. When she sat across from me, the space seemed to realign around her. Her glance flicked toward the employees, silent signals exchanged — a language spoken without words, perfectly understood.
The girl who had bloodied my nose earlier hurried forward, stammering apologies as she explained what had happened. The woman — Snowflake, as I'd once named her — listened quietly, her face unreadable. She nodded once. The girl bowed her head, whispered another apology, and left — the door chiming softly behind her, leaving a silence that felt suddenly heavier.
Snowflake's eyes never left mine. Calm, but sharp — like she was dissecting me, seeing the parts I tried to hide. My throat tightened.
"Uh — hi," I said finally, awkwardly. "I'm Aubrey."
She didn't respond right away. Her eyes studied me, cool and deliberate. It wasn't until the tall, curly-haired man from earlier returned with an ice pack that she spoke.
"I'm Emma," she said, her voice smooth, confident, but with something beneath it — a kind of strength that didn't need to prove itself.
The man smiled easily, extending a hand. "I'm Emmett." His tone carried warmth — the kind that instantly steadies a room. He placed the ice pack on the table and gave me a reassuring nod before heading back to the staff room.
Emma's gaze followed him briefly, then returned to me. "I'm sorry about what June did," she said softly. "She's new. Clumsy." Her words carried genuine regret, and something else I couldn't quite name.
Up close, she was even more arresting. There was a quiet glow about her — not in the way of light, but of presence. The kind that makes everything else blur around her. Her lips curved faintly, her voice a soft hum when she spoke again.
"So, Aubrey," she said, her tone playful but measured, "you're the painter who drew me the snowflake."
I followed her gaze to the framed painting hanging on the wall — the snowflake sketch I'd left weeks ago.
Of course.
I smiled, a little stunned. "You remember?"
"I remember everyone," she said, tilting her head slightly. "My job kind of demands it."
Her words were light, but her eyes held something far deeper.
"Oh, right," I teased. "Barista memory training. Comes with the uniform."
Her laugh was soft — barely a sound — but it lingered like a touch. "Something like that," she said, the corner of her mouth lifting.
"So," she continued, leaning slightly forward, "when did you start painting? Back then, your lines had confidence. Like someone who's known colour their whole life."
The question caught me off guard. I leaned back, smiling despite myself. "Nature," I said simply. "It started with that. The sky, the trees, the light — the way everything moves without ever really going anywhere. I used to sit for hours just watching. At some point, I needed to capture it. I guess that's how it started."
As I spoke, she listened — really listened. Most people nod when you talk about art, pretending to understand. She didn't. She absorbed every word like it meant something. Her silence wasn't distant; it was intent.
Outside, the sun dipped below the skyline, and the city lights flickered on. The soft glow filtered through the window, washing the café in warm gold and shadow. For a moment, it felt like the world had folded in on itself — just us, the light, and the hum of the old radio.
We talked. About nothing and everything. About art and loneliness. About how snow makes silence sound like music. And somewhere in between her laughter and my words, time stopped mattering.
When she finally glanced at her watch, her smile faltered slightly — reluctant, almost apologetic. "I should go," she said, though her voice betrayed that she didn't want to.
A strange pang went through me. "Emma," I repeated, letting the name linger on my tongue like something sacred. "It was really nice meeting you."
Her lips curved again, that same half-smile — gentle but unreadable. "Likewise, Aubrey. We'll see each other again."
She stood, and for a moment, I thought she might say more. But she didn't. She just looked at me one last time — a look that said remember this — and stepped out into the night.
I sat there, the faint scent of cinnamon and her perfume still hanging in the air. The city beyond the glass glowed faintly, blurred by snow and streetlight.
Only when I finally rose to leave did I realize — she hadn't told me anything about herself. Not her story, not her past. She had drawn mine out like a confession, then slipped away, leaving mystery in her wake.
Snowflake. The name fit her now more than ever — beautiful, untouchable, and gone before you can hold her.
But I knew, somehow, this wasn't the last time I'd see her.And next time, I wasn't going to let her walk away without telling me who she really was.