The invitation came in the form of a message tucked inside Sophie's notebook.
James had written it when she wasn't looking, after one of their usual walks through the cemetery. She found it later that night, scrawled in his careful, slightly old-fashioned handwriting on the corner of one of her half-finished pages.
"I thought maybe next time, we could meet somewhere that doesn't smell like memory. I'll be at Weaver & Co. on Thursday, 4 p.m. If you come, I'll order for you — milk, no sugar. – J"
Sophie had read it three times before it sank in.
Not the words. The meaning.
He wanted to meet her somewhere else.
Somewhere with life.
---
Thursday came with grey clouds and a chill breeze. Sophie wore her dark green sweater — the one that made her feel like her bones still held shape — and jeans cuffed at the ankles. Her curls were wild today, held in place by the same pencil she always used to mark up her notebooks.
The little bell above the coffee shop door jingled as she stepped inside.
The air was warm and smelled like cardamom and roasted beans. It was cozy in a way that felt deliberate — soft lighting, exposed wood, a scattering of mismatched chairs. Locals chatted in low tones, and a guitar instrumental played from overhead.
And there, at a window table, sat James.
---
He looked almost ordinary today. No long coat, no haunting eyes — just a navy sweater, dark jeans, and a pair of reading glasses he probably didn't need.
Sophie smiled as she approached. "I almost didn't recognize you without the gloomy cemetery aesthetic."
James stood to greet her, awkward but thoughtful. "You wear green well."
"Thanks," she said, sitting across from him. "You clean up like someone who owns an umbrella."
"I don't."
"Of course not."
He pushed a cup toward her. "Milk, no sugar."
She took it with a soft smile. "So you do listen."
"All the time."
---
They sipped in silence for a moment. Outside the window, the world passed by slowly: a man walking his dog, two teens skateboarding past the bookstore, a woman with a bright scarf holding a child by the hand.
"I like it here," Sophie said, glancing around. "You've been before?"
"No," James replied. "But I walk past it often."
"Why today?"
He hesitated. "Because I wanted to see what you looked like in the middle of the world, not the edge of it."
Sophie blinked, caught off guard.
"That's… actually very poetic."
"I've had a long time to practice."
---
Sophie stirred her drink slowly, watching him.
"James," she said gently. "Can I ask you something?"
He looked at her, calm as always. "Of course."
"Where are you from?"
He smiled faintly. "Originally? Edinburgh. A very long time ago."
She tilted her head. "You don't say that like someone who moved recently."
"I'm not very good with the concept of 'recent.'"
"See," she said, grinning, "this is what I mean. You talk like a time traveler."
He chuckled. "Do I?"
"Like you've lived too long. Or seen too much."
His expression shifted — not uncomfortable, but thoughtful. Like he was remembering something very far away.
"I suppose I have."
---
Sophie leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice soft. "You don't have to tell me everything. But maybe… tell me one thing that's true about you."
James looked at her for a long time, then said, "I don't get cold."
She blinked. "That's it?"
"It's something," he said, sipping his drink. "When it snows, I don't feel it. When it rains, I don't shiver. My body remembers warmth, but doesn't need it."
"That's weird."
"It is."
She smirked. "Weird is growing on me."
He smiled. "I know."
---
They talked for a while after that — about music (he liked cello), about books (she made fun of him for never finishing Jane Eyre), and about places she wanted to see but probably never would.
"I used to want to go to Venice," she said. "Before the heart thing. Before it started to feel like a luxury to just walk up stairs."
James didn't speak right away.
Then: "If I could give you one day, anywhere in the world, without pain or limits, I would."
Sophie swallowed.
"I think," she said quietly, "I'd still want to spend it here. Right now."
---
Their cups emptied. The light in the shop turned amber. And Sophie reached into her notebook and pulled out a photo.
It was a grainy picture she'd snapped of James the week before — without him noticing — as he stood under the willow tree, staring off into the sky.
"Look at this," she said.
He examined the photo, brows knitting.
"I took it by accident," she went on. "But when I zoomed in... your reflection's not in the puddle."
James didn't speak.
Sophie didn't press.
"But the light," she said, shifting, "the shadow... it's like you're almost there."
He looked up at her, expression unreadable. "And what do you think that means?"
"I think," she said slowly, "you're not like other people. And I don't want to pretend I haven't noticed."
James set the photo down carefully. "Does it scare you?"
Sophie smiled sadly. "Everything scares me. But you? Not really."
---
The bell above the door jingled again. Someone left. Someone else entered. The air shifted.
And still, they sat.
"I have questions," Sophie said finally. "And I know you won't answer them all."
"No," James admitted. "But I'll try. If you ask gently."
She grinned. "I'm very gentle."
He gave a soft laugh. "You're sharper than you look."
"Flattery will get you nowhere," she said, sipping the last of her coffee.
He looked at her for a moment — really looked — and something softened in his eyes.
"I like being seen by you, Sophie."
And she felt it.
Like the world had just folded inward around that moment. Like her ribs had found something to lean against. Like the end of the world wouldn't be so bad, as long as she got a few more hours with this strange, timeless man in front of her.
---
When she returned home that night, the first thing she did was open her notebook.
---
Dear Future Me,
I met him in the middle of the world today — not on the edge, not at the grave. A coffee shop. A quiet table. A window with light.
And I saw him, I think. A little.
He's not normal. He's not safe, either — not in the way most people mean. But there's something in him that doesn't pull away when I break. Something that leans in instead.
He said he doesn't get cold.
But when he looked at me, I felt warm anyway.
Maybe that's enough.
---