Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Droplets hit and slide down the glass door, distorting the already inscrutable text—at least when trying to read it from the inside. From within the coffee shop the distant rumbling of thunder is heavily muffled, as is the relentless drumming of pouring rain, but the cold still finds a way to seep into the establishment. A single yellowish light by the entrance is all there is—for now—to fight off the darkness encroaching as day turns into night.

The door opens violently, fully disregarding—and even flipping—the card hanging from the handle indicating that the shop is not yet open to the public. At the threshold, breathing heavily and soaked from head to toe, stands a young woman clutching a ratty backpack to her chest. A large bomber jacket both dwarfs her form and does little to protect her from the rain, as evidenced by her dripping dark hair sticking to her forehead. Her eyes, as brown as they are wide, dart around the room.

“Would you mind closing the door since you’re already here?”

The woman hurriedly complies, cringing when it hits the frame with too much force.

A person steps into the light from behind the counter, pen and clipboard in hand, and a skeptic look on their face. They don’t seem that much older than her. Their mop of short, bleached near white hair sits under a fisherman’s cap—it draws the woman’s eyes rather unsubtly. Clearing their throat is enough to snap her back into attention.

They point to the still swinging sign. “We’re not open yet.” Mild annoyance permeates their words.

“I’m so so so sorry! I’ll get our of your hair so fast. I just left a couple notebooks here last night.” She looks further down the narrow corridor that comprises the café, finding only shadows and shapes vaguely resembling shelves and stools along the length of the counter. “I could’ve sworn they were in my backpack but-”

“They’re probably here, yeah.” The woman’s head snaps back to the person who seems rather nonplussed as they step into the backroom. “You’re not the first—and certainly not the last—to forget your stuff. What did they look like?”

“They’re green! Spiral. And. Um. Another pink one that says Zoey on the cover.”

The person peeks out at the woman—Zoey—and her reddening face. They chuckle. “Yep, I remember spotting those somewhere. Gimme a minute.”

Tuning out the muted sounds of rummaging, Zoey’s mind wanders. A deep, calming breath grounds her much like the fresh coffee she can smell so clearly. There's some stand out notes—something sweet, something herbal, something spicy. A squeaky clean yet notably old counter, with grooves and warping and history. All the mugs on the far shelf seem unique. None of the plates match. She sees her distorted reflection on the shiny surface of the coffee machine—freckled and frazzled, a proper mess, now with a frown to match.

“So. College?”

Zoey startles. “Um. Yeah. How did you guess?”

“This is the usual spot for burning the midnight oil. Plenty of forgotten stationery.” There’s the telltale sound of pens and pencils and other such articles clacking against each other.

“So you'd say you have a ‘staple’ influx of students?”

The clacking continues.

“I guess all the forgotten items don't ‘supplies’ you.”

A faint noncommittal hum comes from the backroom. Zoey's breath turns into mist before her eyes. She starts to sweat.

“I swear I'm not the type to forget important things. Not usually! But it was late and I forgot I had a lecture today. It was so boring and so early I thought I’d write some ly- some class notes. For class. In my notebook. Which I realized I didn't have on me. And my schedule today is full. Then I remembered I had promised my mom we’d go get dinner so I was sitting there for hours before I could leave. I may have also, um, forgotten that this place opens at night. I was convinced I got here just after closing hours. So, uh, sorry I barged in like that.”

“Lucky for you I'm usually here early.” The barista finally returns to end Zoey's misery. “Found your stuff. Music, huh?”

Or not. They leave their findings on the counter. There, on top of the rest, is a notebook with frayed borders and a plethora of stickers haphazardly smacked on the cover. A name tag among them reads in scribbly script ‘Zoey’s Awesome Lyrics’.

“Oh! No!” She flips it around with a sense of finality. “God, no. Haha! Hah.”

They stare at each other for a moment. Zoey laughs again for good measure.

“Oookay-”

“I'm doing business admin.” Zoey tugs on her jacket’s zipper. Her gaze falls and lands clumsily on the counter, caught in a particularly deep groove.

“Ah.” The coffee machine starts with the flick of a switch and a whir, filling the gaps in conversation. “Well, I bet finals are hard.”

“An absolute nightmare.”

“Do group reviews make it easier?”

“Nah,” Zoey shrugs stiffly. Her fingertips glide over the groove. “We don’t really see eye to eye.”

They start organizing the measuring cups and weigh their next comment amidst the clinking of porcelain. “You don’t seem the business type.”

“I know. And they know.” Zoey’s humorless half smile is too shaky, too strained—a borderline grimace. Her eyes haven’t left the counter. “But they are the business type, so I’m the problem.”

“Have you considered changing majors?”

“Lord, no. I couldn’t do that to my parents. The divorce was hard enough.”

A shrill sound escapes from the backroom—a landline’s ringing, tearing through the moment. The barista groans.

“Sorry, I gotta take that.” They walk off once again, but not before giving her one last look. Zoey matches it. It's heavier than before, scrutinizing, but nothing more comes of it. Both look away. “Please flip the sign back to closed on your way out.”

And Zoey is alone. Her stomach drops from the weight of the familiar shame that comes after oversharing. The sooner she leaves, the sooner she can put this incident behind her by never stepping foot in this café again. A bummer. She liked their Masala Chai.

She arranges each notebook into her damp backpack, being specially careful with the lyrics one, when she notices a book has slipped in between them. It’s the same shade of green as her notebooks but bound in leather soft to the touch; of pretty high quality too as far as she can tell. The front cover is emblazoned with two snakes in an oval eating each others’ tails, and in the center the title written in elegant black hangul.

Zoey scoffs. “‘The Never Ending Story’. Sure you are.”

She turns it this way and that, noting the minimalist design. There’s no author, no summary, no editorial house, not outside and not in a cursory flip through—which reveals a few passages in verse and elaborate illustrations.

That should be it. Her curiosity surrounding the strange tome is supposed to be sated, and yet Zoey finds herself unable to put it back on the counter. There’s something still bothering her, something strong enough that the idea of returning it feels disappointing.

The barista’s muffled conversation can still be heard in the background. How long has she been standing there, hands and eyes glued to the book? Is there such a thing as a never ending story? The book looks quite finite to her. It’s just a silly title after all.

In the years to follow, anyone wondering what compelled her to shove the book in her backpack and quietly make her way out the door would get no straight answer from Zoey. She had no apparent motive as to why she waited until she was out of view of the front door to sprint through the torrential night, or why she locked herself up once she reached her apartment, soaked to the bone and clutching her backpack like something sacred.

She double, triple checks the lock on the door, but the only thing chasing her can slip under it just as easily as it can go in between her ribs and wrap around her lungs in a vice grip. How long will it take for the café to open? Until a patron returns for their book? What if this belonged to the barista?

The book looks fancy and mysterious. Surely it's some invaluable special edition. Surely the cops will get called on her. Would they be able to get her fingerprints from the door?

A blaring noise in her backpack scares the living lights out of Zoey. Was the book a bomb? Was it all a ploy to-?

It's her meds alarm.

In the darkness broken by the fridge light Zoey pulls out a water pitcher feeling distinctly humbled.

The snap of lightning disencourages making the trek back to the café. Perhaps another stop the next day at a more reasonable hour and with a simple explanation would do. The barista seemed fairly agreeable, if a bit irritated—understandably so.

In the meantime she is home, just past nine, and already in her comfiest pajamas. She curls up on the beaten up couch that used to belong to her grandmother—the previous tenant—with a steaming cup of instant noodles in hand. There's not much else to her routine but doom scroll and let exhaustion drag her down into slumber.

Except there's the book.

She takes it out to hold it again. It feels oddly dense. The lights flicker as thunder strikes and, for a split second, Zoey can swear the snakes on the cover twist and coil. What a funny illusion.

She opens it on the first page.