Wang Jie had been up since five, grinding beans by hand like some monk in a temple of caffeine. He didn't believe in machines much — they were too fast, too cold. Coffee should take time, he always said. Like poetry.
But by 9 a.m., Quiet House Café had served exactly three customers — all takeaway.
He stared out the window of his empty shop in the Wenchang district, sipping a lukewarm cup he didn't really want. Rain tapped on the glass like tiny ghosts asking to be let in.
Once, the café had been full — college students, indie musicians, foreigners writing blogs. That was four years ago. Now, rent had gone up, and hipster trends had gone elsewhere.
But he stayed.
Because this café was all he had left.
A soft chime rang as the door opened.
Wang Jie straightened. A girl in a paint-stained hoodie stepped inside, dripping on the floor. She looked around like she was searching for something lost a long time ago.
"You're open?" she asked.
"You're inside," he said.
She smiled faintly. "One Americano."
Wang nodded and got to work. She sat in the corner booth, pulling a sketchpad from her messenger bag. The rain kept falling. The city kept buzzing beyond the window.
When he brought her the cup, she looked up. "Thanks."
"No sugar?"
"I like the bitterness," she said.
"You a student?"
She hesitated. "Sort of. I paint."
"Professionally?"
"No. Just… on walls."
He raised an eyebrow. "Ah. Street murals?"
She gave a sly grin. "Something like that."
He noticed the paint stains on her hands. Blues and reds. Her nails were short. Her fingers moved constantly — tapping the table, flicking the pen, never still.
"You live around here?" he asked.
"I drift."
He chuckled. "Like a ghost?"
"Maybe."
Wang Jie sat across from her — something he rarely did with customers.
"You're the first person to sit here today," he said.
"Maybe ghosts need coffee too."
For the next hour, they didn't speak. She drew. He cleaned the grinder, re-folded the napkins, refilled sugar jars — all rituals of survival.
When she finally stood up to leave, she asked, "You own this place?"
"Since 2016."
"Why keep going?"
Wang Jie looked around the empty café. He shrugged.
"Because ghosts come in sometimes."
She smiled again. "I'm Fox."
He nodded. "Wang Jie."
She left with the same quiet energy she came with — like wind slipping through an alley.
Later that night, after closing, Wang Jie found a folded paper napkin under the table. On it, in blue pen, was a sketch of him behind the counter — eyes heavy, heart still warm.
Underneath, she had written:
"Don't die. The city's still watching."