I hate mornings.

And more than that, I hate interactions with people.

That's why I go to Spilling Stories.

A quaint, forgettable caf� - second left from the bookstore. It knows how to keep quiet. The kind of place where no one tells you to smile, where the staff barely meet your eye. It's perfect.

I slip inside just past nine. The smell of coffee and cinnamon hangs in the air like a memory. Familiar. Safe. I give a small nod to the barista; he returns it without a word. That's our language. No names, no chat. Just mutual indifference. Bliss.

"Coffee, Black, no sugar" I say.

He already knows my order. But I say it anyway. Ritual is comforting.

I'm about to reach for my phone when I hear it. Music - live.

It's coming from upstairs. The caf� has a loft level, usually quiet in the mornings. I've never paid much attention to it, but today, there's... something.

A voice.

Male. Low, rough at the edges. Like gravel in warm honey. He sings like he's telling a secret, one he's not sure he should share. There's no backing band, just him and a guitar, maybe, or a keyboard. I can't tell. The sound is raw. Intimate. There's nothing polished about it, and maybe that's what makes it? real.

I don't move. Not at first. I just stand there, one hand on the counter, heart doing something unfamiliar - tightening? Tugging?

The song crests into a high, fragile note. It breaks. I feel it. Not in the dramatic, poetic way people talk about music "touching the soul" - this is sharper, more private. Like something slipping under my skin before I could raise my guard.

And just like that, it ends.

I look up. The barista shrugs before I can ask. "We've had a few local artists doing morning sets. Not scheduled or anything. Just show up, sing a song or two. Kinda random."

I hesitate. "Who was that?"

"No idea. Didn't catch a name."

I grab my coffee and make my way upstairs. There's a half-circle of empty chairs, a stool pushed back under a standing mic. A single paper cup still sweating onto the windowsill. But the singer's already gone.

Figures.

I sit anyway. The chair is still warm. I sip slowly. The song loops in my head, unfinished, like an interrupted thought. I try to hum it under my breath, but I can't quite catch the melody. It's slipping away already, like dreams do the moment you open your eyes.

I tell myself it doesn't matter. I'll forget it by lunch.

Or so I think.