The Idol I Never Chose

Rain hit the window like someone was tapping fast fingers. Hannah Keller held her umbrella with one hand and her phone with the other, both useless in the sudden storm. The side-street café was small and warm, with fogged glass and a bell that rang when the door opened.

She stepped inside and shook out her wet hair. The air smelled like coffee, sugar, and old wood. A few people sat close together, heads bent over phones, but no one looked up for long.

At the window, a young man sat alone. He wore a black mask and a dark cap under the hood of his sweatshirt. His hands were around a cup, but he didn’t drink. His eyes kept moving to the door, then to the street outside, like he was counting seconds.