The rain drummed steadily against the window, turning the street outside into a watercolor blur. Marqs sat at a corner table, his fingers curled around a coffee cup, savoring the warmth it offered. His plaid shirt still carried the dampness of the storm, the tattoo on his forearm glimpsing out like fragments of an untold story.
The cafe hummed with life, a neon sign casting a subtle glow over the room. A chalkboard advertised lunch specials that no one seemed to notice, while the barista behind the counter worked with fluid precision, his movements almost hypnotic in their rhythm.
Marqs' gaze drifted to the window, where raindrops traced erratic paths down the glass. He followed them absently, his mind quieter now than it had been in days. There was something about the small cafe—the muted chatter, the hum of the espresso machine, the rain-softened world outside—that pressed gently against the tension he carried.
This moment of stillness wasn’t a solution, and he knew it. But it was something—a space to breathe, a pause in the noise. He let it be enough for now.
First Coffee
Run Away
