Entity
Right after the bell above the door chimes, the café heaves into focus: bodies huddled over the chalkboard, eyes glazed, orders muttered like prayer. The hiss of steam blends with distant chatter, the scent of burnt sugar and fresh espresso pressing against your senses like a living thing.
Even from where I stand—tucked into this corner by the window—I can feel the floorboards tremble with each footstep. Warm sunlight streams through the glass, warming exposed patches of wood, while behind the counter, the barista’s motions blur between frothing milk and scanning order tickets.
Most patrons never glance my way. They settle onto stools, lean in to their cups, and stare out the window as if they’re waiting for something miraculous. I’ve watched them cradle mugs in both hands, their knuckles whitening as steam fogs the glass before they inhale that first, hopeful sip.
Every so often, I catch a flicker of movement in the reflection—an empty vessel perched on a shelf alongside chipped mugs and neglected syrup bottles. The glass distorts my shape, but the blue stain at my base is unmistakable. For a heartbeat, I wonder if someone will notice.
My edges are dulled by time, a network of fine cracks spidering across my surface like veins. No lip’s caress warms me anymore; I bear only the chill of open air and the faintest drip of condensation on my underside, marking the passage of each passing hour.
Behind the counter, the backroom door exhales a low creak, and I feel the floor shudder as something slithers through the gloom. Its form is too tall, too lithe to be human—limbs shifting in unnatural angles as it traces the row of mugs, searching.
Eventually, night falls and the machines power down, leaving a hush that swallows every whisper. Footsteps retreat, the latch clicks, and the amber glow from that forbidden room dims to nothing. In the silence, my hollow belly throbs with the echoes of secrets I can never share.
Right now, I remain—silent, cracked, and waiting.
Remember me: I am the cup entity, hidden in plain sight, the silent witness to every stolen moment in this room.
