She rolled her eyes to one side, a quick circular motion that mimicked the twirling of her hair. She tapped her boot-clad foot on the ground, metal chains clinking as they moved. Impatience. Quickly turning to annoyance, which would eventually lead to a blistering rage. She crossed her arms and looked at the silver watch, watched every flicker of the secondhand, heard every tick as another second flashed by.

She often busied herself with these nervous, impatient mannerisms. She couldn't stand waiting, being still, even if it was only for a few minutes. She wanted to do what she wanted, when she wanted. Not a second later.

Just then she heard the door unlock, and tossed a final glance backward. The thick fog masked the buildings around her. If there was anything lurking around in the dark cobblestone alleys, as she often suspected, she certainly couldn't see them tonight.

She turned the doorknob and pushed it open before the storekeeper had time to flip over the 'Closed' sign to 'Open.' He didn't mind, though. She was here most nights, and was a good customer. He welcomed her with a toothy smile. "Back so soon, Korina?" His accent was thick and when he said her name, the r rolled right into the rest of her name. She found the accent endearing, if just a little bit odd.

She smiled back at him. "You've got atmosphere here that I can't find anywhere else." She asked him for the regular café au lait and settled into her favorite chair, forgetting her irritation. Sometimes the old man was late to open the shop, but as long as it opened at some point, she was content enough. She pulled a rather new-looking paperback book from her bag, and opened it to the dog-eared page, immersing herself in the calmness of the midnight- 2 AM bookshop/coffeehouse. There weren't any "hipster" college kids in here tonight; she was alone for once. Alone, in her safe haven of coffee smells mixing with book smells. Her sort of heaven.

It was late enough to avoid the crazy iPhone-addicted hipsters and early enough to be mostly alone in a city of very few vampires. Or at least that was what Darwick thought. The late night bus decanted him like the last Greek olive in a bottle. He was fine with that. The sky was clear and cold – the stars like sparkles on the face of an embarrassed stripper. Darwick gazed at them for only a few moments. He was thinking about a friend of his, David, and what had happened to him. David was human and Darwick was too late to save him. Fact was, he’d been far too late to save himself.

He was walking the night – the long mile – listening to his shoes beat the cobblestone and to his thoughts punish him for not having been quick enough to save a friend. But what of it? Darwick was vampire. Well, that and something else he didn't want to think about. But his friend; he was only human, and Darwick failed him. Just like he’d failed Lillian.

There was a light and the smell of coffee. It was just after 2:00am, so it seemed a bit odd. He was walking and the smell of coffee was dragging at his feet. He turned to follow it. As a man, as a human, coffee was an old friend. He felt that he could use one now.

Through the window he saw an old man standing and a woman sitting. No one else. Well, why not. Even if just for the smell of coffee.

Darwick entered the glass door and stood before the cash register. He glanced around and the old man smiled. He came toward Darwick and said that he could seat himself and would he like a cup of coffee. “More than anything,” Darwick had answered. “Black, please,” he added.

Darwick walked past the solitary female reading a book and thought nothing of her. He had coffee on his mind, a dead friend, a lost lover and an inherited sister who had simply disappeared on his mind. Sometimes, we just need to be alone with our thoughts.

The old man set the cup and saucer on the table before Darwick, whiped his hands on his white apron and asked if he wanted a menu. “No thanks,” Darwick answered. “Except ...” he paused. “Do you have any apple or cherry crumble?” He would not be able to eat it but, at least, he could smell it and remember home.

“Apple crumble coming up, my good man,” the old man said. As he walked away, he turned and said as though it was a proclamation of sainthood – “My wife’s favourite recipe, god rest her soul.”

Darwick watched him walk away to get his order.

God rest my soul, Darwick thought. Then he frowned and stared out the window. There is no god. Tonight, there is only coffee, the smell of apple crumble and not a god damn thing else worth a rat’s ass. It started to rain. The cobblestone street made even rain seem romantic.

She had just gotten to her favorite part, where the heroine, a headstrong psychic with a taste for danger, overcame the three-headed beast and gained its strength, using it to seal the border between the dimensions and returning to her boring, everyday human life back in Massachusetts. These fantasies were all she read. Of course, to everyone else they were just fantastical stories, nothing else. But Korina knew in her gut that there had to be some bit of truth in these books. Like the things she knew hid in the dark. The things normal people were supposed to fear; the things she dreamed about.

Suddenly a whistle of a breeze swept through the door. She felt a chill go up her spine and turned to see who had come inside. She expected one of a few distinct types: the hipsters, the writers, the coffee junkies, and the tourists. What she saw fit none of these types.

At once she was struck by him. The way he talked, moved, it was all so different. In a way that was completely ordinary, but not. Somehow it was different. Like the air moved differently around him. She couldn't tell if she was hallucinating or daydreaming or anything that would affect her perception. She pinched herself on the arm to make sure she was awake.

The oddity, the out-of-placeness was what struck her most. She'd never seen this guy before, and usually on dead nights like tonight, no one but the usuals came in. No one else cared enough or knew about this place. This guy was new. Different. Like something from the books she read.

She found herself staring and looked away. Thankfully, he hadn't noticed her.  For all her short-temperedness and hard attitude, she hated being embarrassed. Especially in front of strangers.

So she looked back to her book, but couldn't concentrate on the actions unfolding within it. She was distracted, intrigued, with this lone, pondering man. Maybe it was the way he stared broodingly out the window. Or maybe it was the apple crumble he'd ordered and not even touched. Mystery hung around him like a curtain, shielding secrets and stories and all the wonders she could think up.

He was a writer, though one would think that rather odd. There was an air of royalty about Ambrose; an alley tom surveying his streets. But still, under his arm was a bag with a laptop. And of course, pens, pencils, and paper, which he far preferred anyway. There were memories of simpler times attached to the insignificant motion of writing down a few notes.

He was loathe to stay in the rain that had begun, rain he had hoped to escape by coming out earlier. Well, and there were just the kinds of quaint little shops open at such an ungodly hour that he was hoping to draw some inspiration from. And hopefully, there would be some interesting night owls about. One never could tell. 'There were more things...' and all.

One such a place he was looking for caught his eye as he hurried through the rain. It looked invitingly warm and full of coffee scents. He'd had the fortune to open the door at the same time the old man spoke. That was something worth noting. A little tidbit like that should be remembered, even if only by a very few people.

The charming older man asked him what he'd like. Ambrose instantly liked this man, and made a mental note to come back here again, and maybe speak with him today. After all, there was nothing better in his day. His clothes were well worn, his shaving hasty, and the soles of his shoes nearly worn through. It didn't come into his mind even once that he couldn't really afford this cup of coffee. It wouldn't have bothered him anyway, since Ambrose knew there were always ways to make money and the invaluable bonds between people couldn't be found quite as easily.

He took his own seat; not too far as to seem distant, and not so close as to intrude on either of the other customers' solitude. Oh, but he'd noticed the stare that woman was giving the man. And he found himself creating all sorts of scenarios, taking a notebook of wide ruled paper from the bag near his feet. Before he'd even thought twice, he was scribbling nearly unreadable notes across the lined expanse. There was a smile on his face, full of easy, natural joy. Like he didn't know anything but to enjoy life.

Catching himself, he paused in his scribbles, looked up, and clasped a hot cup in his hands. Sometimes his mind got ahead of him. There couldn't possibly be anything between this probably random occurrence. Then again, chaos and order worked in mysterious ways.

He laughed to himself and wrote that down too.

The rain carried someone into the cafe. Darwick noticed him through the interruption of light and shadow outside the window. He turned quickly away from it and stared at the crumble. How sweet it looked, how sweet it smelled. The old man had moved to a new customer, and Darwick did not remember if he’d said anything. It seemed suddenly unimportant. Glancing back, he noticed a man of boyish lines writing in a booklet – almost smugly. Or maybe it just seemed that way. Darwick sighed; perhaps another researcher looking to find his Pulitzer in a late and darkened place.

Darwick rose from his seat leaving the crumble to stand uneaten. He slowed as he passed the man writing in a booklet, said nothing and moved on. Time teaches silence.

“Your wife is surely in heaven,” Darwick said ingratiatingly to the old man. It hardly mattered that what he said meant nothing. Still, Darwick harboured no ill will toward humans.

He’d have kept walking and heading on out the door but for the look on the woman’s face as he passed. He slowed, but did not stop. Then he did stop, at the door, holding it open. He looked back at her and angled his head. No. She could not have noticed. Humans almost never got it right. He smiled again to the old man.

“Be well, Sir,” he said.

Darwick left the cafe and walked past its windows. He paid special attention to the male writing in a booklet. He glanced to the woman reading. He felt no danger from either, no chance of discovery, and so pulled his jacket lapels up to hide his face; to hide his secret. And, perhaps in some eternally pointless hope, to hide what he was.

He waited at the corner even though the light was in his favour. He looked back up to the stars, the rain drizzling over his forehead, and yanked his jacket tighter to his shoulders. The next bus would arrive in 2 hours. He figured that he should probably not miss it.