Not long after, the garçon returned, setting the coffee down on the table.
A thick, white ceramic cup — the classic bistro style, shaped to hold the drink's heat. Its curved, flattened handle left barely enough room for a finger, and the pristine white of the cup made the dark coffee within seem all the richer, steam curling off its surface where it rested on a matching saucer, a brass spoon laid beside it.
The smell alone filled his senses with an indescribable pleasure, a warmth he hadn't felt in far too long, and he let himself relax as his taste buds savored every sip.
"Wow. Didn't peg you for such a coffee lover."
Alphard, catching himself, hadn't noticed how visibly he'd been enjoying it, and the comment sent a small flicker of nerves through him. Still, he kept his composure as always, and answered without much thought.
"It really is delicious. Not quite the same as what my sister makes, but still very good."
Marcel smiled and nodded along. Lifting his own cup carefully, he took a slow sip, and, clearly enjoying it, agreed with Alphard's assessment.
"You're right — it really is fantastic."
The coffee was good enough that it didn't take them long to finish it.
At that, Marcel signaled for the check with a subtle wave of his hand. The garçon, catching the gesture instantly, wove his way back through the crowded room with quick, practiced steps.
A small ceramic dish had been left on the marble tabletop earlier, when their order arrived — a round piece with the exact cost of the service etched clearly into its flat base: 20 cents. Marcel dropped the coins onto it.
With a subtle smile, the waiter carried it off to the counter, and the two of them waited a few seconds for the change.
The garçon returned, the metal dish giving a soft chime as he set it back down on the marble, brimming with silver change. Without so much as touching the coins, the young man rose to his feet, straightened his hat and coat, gave the waiter a small nod, and turned to go — leaving the money behind as a tip — falling into step beside Alphard as they stepped back into the bustle of the street.
They moved with a shared, unhurried pace, letting their lazy footsteps set the rhythm against the damp cobblestones.
They wandered the avenues without any real destination, pausing now and then to glance at a lit shop window, blending in with the slow, steady tide of people drifting along the sidewalks.
By the time they came to a stop near where they'd first met, the light had climbed even higher in the sky. Along the way, Marcel had explained that in Victoria, there were schools that took on beginners, placing them as assistants until they'd advanced enough to take on a teaching post of their own.
"We don't have the money to make the trip yet. I'll take whatever work comes up and save toward traveling there eventually."
Adjusting his top hat, Alphard felt ready to press on with his search.
Marcel, meanwhile, wore an expression of quiet self-reproach, almost disappointment. Still, he shook it off, falling back into his usual easy smile, and adjusted his own hat.
"Sorry I couldn't be more help. My father does own Armstrong Mechanical Works, but you've never had any real training in mechanics, have you?"
Alphard nodded, accepting it without much resistance. He hadn't studied mechanical engineering back on Earth either — certainly not the kind of machinery from over a century before his own time.
"Even so, thank you for today. If you'll excuse me, I should get going."
Marcel offered his hand, and a firm handshake sealed their goodbye before they went their separate ways. But as Alphard turned to leave, Marcel felt a flicker of unease settle over him — something didn't quite fit. It wasn't just this moment; ever since Alphard's strange reaction earlier, that same confusion had lingered, refusing to let go.
"Alphard — you sure you're all right?"
The question froze Alphard where he stood. A cold current raced down his spine, and for a moment he couldn't process what was happening at all.
Turning slowly, he offered a friendly smile, but to Marcel, the look in his eyes belonged to a stranger — as if someone had swapped bodies with Alphard, or stolen his identity outright.
From where he stood, Alphard scrambled through his mind for anything that might get him out of this, forcing himself to answer as quickly as possible, careful not to sound suspicious. It seemed, of all people, Marcel had ended up the closest friend the otherwise solitary Alphard had.
"Yeah — just really stressed about the job situation, that's all."
With no trace of suspicion or further questioning, Marcel nodded, touching the brim of his hat as if he understood completely.
"Well, I hope it works out. If you need anything, just send word — write me a letter."
Alphard nodded and walked off, his pace quickening into something close to desperation, ducking into an alley out of Marcel's sight.
His ragged breathing and racing pulse slowly eased over the following seconds, until his body and mind finally settled back into some semblance of calm.
Checking every corner around him, he felt, somehow, that the danger had passed, and decided on his own to head toward the busiest part of the city — the Montfleury district, the most popular, most touristy, and above all, the most extravagant part of town.
The unbearable weight of everything that had happened finally caught up with him, forcing him to collapse onto a wooden bench at the edge of a nearby park.
He needed air — but the scene around him felt almost like a cruel joke against his own distress: a steady river of travelers and foreigners, their accents drifting together in a dozen different tones, lounged peacefully beneath the shade of the trees, while a handful of street portraitists raised their easels and sketchbooks, catching the indifferent beauty of the afternoon in quick strokes of charcoal.
His rest didn't last, though — a pair of officers began inspecting the area, scanning the crowd. Fear surged through him the instant Mr. Blake appeared among the people, and even from a distance, an overwhelming unease told him to leave, immediately.
But Mr. Blake, as if he had a hawk's eyes, spotted Alphard among the crowd almost at once, and the dread that shot through Alphard sent him bolting, his walk breaking instantly into a frantic run, never once looking back.
His shoes struck the cobblestones in a fast, ragged rhythm, eating up the distance as urgency hammered his heartbeat like blows against his chest.
I need to get out of here. I need to escape, now.
Then, all at once, reality itself seemed to fracture. The ground beneath Alphard's feet began to warp and twist like something alive, folding the street into an impassable, writhing landscape that sealed off any hope of escape.
Desperate, he searched for a way out through the nearby alleys, but it was useless. The facades and buildings around him started to buckle into impossible angles, boxing him inside a warped, aberrant cage of architecture.
Amid the collapse, a distant echo drifted through the air — a far-off voice pronouncing a name in some strange, disjointed cadence, a word Alphard couldn't parse or attach to any identity at all.
The Father. The Lord. The Eternal God of Misery.
Unable to process the chaos unraveling his sense of reality, he felt his mind drowning in confusion. His heart, driven by nothing but raw survival instinct, refused to give in to the crushing weight of his surroundings, hammering on with a desperate fury just to keep him upright.
But right at the edge of his endurance, the fabric of the air seemed to tear, and someone, from somewhere he couldn't place, began calling his name.
"Alphard! Alphard!"
The echo rang out, and with every passing second the whisper grew clearer, more familiar, until it settled into something almost like a comforting melody.
As if the thick fog of a nightmare had simply dissolved, Alphard blinked and found himself standing exactly where he'd started running from. The warped, impossible geometry he'd witnessed vanished like sand scattered on the wind.
A sense of calm settled through him — but the danger wasn't quite over. Beside him, Helena's presence pulled him fully back to earth. She stared at him, brow drawn tight in a sharp mix of indignation and disbelief, her eyes demanding an explanation he didn't yet have.
"What is wrong with you, brother?!"
Dazed and disoriented, he pushed himself up off the ground, clumsy and unsteady, brushing off the dust while searching desperately for his sister's eyes. In that instant, a burning wave of shame crawled up his neck — a humiliation so deep, so impossible to put into words, that it sealed his throat shut entirely.
For several seconds that felt like an eternity, he stood frozen and silent, feeling the crushing weight of the crowd's stares pressing into him like needles.