"Found You"

It started off as a weird sort of routine, more of a strange ritual than custom the universe had assigned just to me. Every other weekday without fail, that woman would stroll into the orphanage, like she owned the winds. Honestly, she was always hovering by either getting in the way of the other children's fun when it involved me, or plopping down next to me like some chatterbox auntie. Yapping on at an eight-year-old who couldn’t be less interested.

I remember one of those afternoons pretty clearly. I’d parked myself under this massive old tree in the furthest corner of the garden, the rough bark digging into my back as I vigorously scribbled orange crayon over my four-legged stick drawing. I was lost in moment, like it was some ancient relic I had to uncover. Then came the soft rustle of leaves, followed by a sound, delicate, airy... like little bells being jiggled in a jar. I already knew it was her.

Always her.

She moved like a breeze wrapped in silk, like the wind itself was enchanted and following her command. Don’t ask me how. Some people just have that air about them like they belong to a different realm.

I didn’t look up, but I could feel her eyes boring into the back of my skull and straight through onto my sketchbook.

“Fancy seein’ you here, young one,” she cooed, her voice floating like a melody. The screech of my crayon responded unapologetically, “You must be one sharp kid.”

Didn’t know what she meant by that, and couldn’t be arsed to ask.

She tilted her head, peering down at the drawing. “And what might that be?” Her voice was syrupy sweet but not in a fake way.

“A tabby... I guess.” I shrugged, not bothering to look at her. “Dreamt about it once…” I hesitated, then glanced up, eyeing her properly.

“What about you, eh? What might you be?”

Yeah, I know. It must've been a pretty weird way to phrase it, because the moment the words left my lips, the air around us went funny. As if even the trees decided to hold their breath.

Oops, I thought to myself. Smooth, Charlotte. Real smooth.

But instead of laughing or walking off, she just stared at me intently. Then slowly, she grinned.

“Melinda,” she said, holding out a hand. Her fingers were rough and calloused, so I blinked at them, pulled a face, and returned to my tabby cat masterpiece.

“Melinda Piers,” she added, withdrawing her hand into her pocket with a light sigh. “And you?”

I raised a brow. “My name, you mean?”

She nodded. I could tell she wasn’t used to kids who didn’t fall for her charm.

“Charlotte,” I finally muttered, then hesitated. I had a question bubbling at the tip of my tongue, but thought better of it and asked something else instead. “Why does a posh woman like you hang about this place?”

She chuckled, leaning back against the tree like it was the most comfortable throne in the world. “I’m not posh, love. Just... well-travelled.” Her eyes twinkled as she looked up at the branches. “Let’s just say, I come here to see a friend.”

She winked, and I looked away awkwardly as I bent low, continuing my sketch.

***

It's been sixteen years since the Piers took me in. Five years since I packed outta Number Six, Melburry Street and started calling a cluttered flat beside a bakery, my home. Lexxton town hadn’t changed much. Still smelled like a mix of old books and fresh coffee. And I stayed, mostly because of the coffee shop my folks left me. It’s not glamorous, but at least it’s mine.

It's been three months since I rang Melinda. Not proud of that one. Evelyn, my best friend, wasn’t shy in pointing it out either. Apparently Melinda had been poking her for updates like a worried mum with too much time on her hands.

She looked different these days, Melinda. The sparkle in her steps, that magical tinkling were completely gone. Maybe it was age, or something else. Either way, I wouldn’t dare say it to her face.

***

I can hear my phone vibrating in the top drawer of my office, but I ignore it. I can barely even hear myself think. The shop is more rammed today with customers packed in like pigeons at a chip van. And the bellringer just kept chiming. Door opened. Bell chimed again. My ears rang like I was being punished.

“Innit mad today?” groans a coworker, Henry, as he wipes the sweat off his brow. “Table five wants two cappas an’ two iced teas, with extra cubes in one.”

“Table two’s shoutin’ for an iced Americano and a flat white!” another one yells.

“Table—”

“SHUT IT!” I bellow, slamming my palm on the prep table like a judge about to sentence everyone to death. They all jerk, surprised, in unison. And I sigh, my back aching like I’d been run over. It's good that business is going well, I'm not complaining, it really is good but,

“This is mental. Absolute chaos.” I curse as I scan the shop with my eyes like a hawk, when I spot Henry sneakin’ off in a tiptoe, like he's tryna disappear into thin air. My face cracks into a mischievous grin.

“Henry luv,” I sing-song sweetly, too sweetly, to him and he halts mid-step, already aware of the reason behind my summoning him.

“Come help me in the kitchen, yeah? Feels a bit grim dyin’ alone.”

He groans dramatically. “Piss off with your suicide pact.” But he yanks on some gloves anyway. "So where do I start?"

“Start with the cappas,” I say, smirking like a devil. “We’re in the trenches now, bruv."

“Don't blame me if we lose customers,” he mutters, then BAM, right on cue, the bell jingles again. But this time, the noise in the coffeehouse seizes alongside the ringing, almost completely. The silence that follows seems unnatural. Even the wind outside is on pause.

An eerie chill snakes up my arms, and tiny goosebumps prickles my skin like alarm bells. This feeling felt familiar, but it's only Melinda I've known to carry it along with her. Well, not until she clocked forty. But whatever, or whoever, this is, the atmosphere shifted like the entire room was holding its breath.

Then came the whispers, “Oh my God, is that...?”

Henry creeps over to the service hatch and peeks out. His usual source of gossip, and he lets out a loud gasp that catches me off guard.

“What in the actual—”

“Woah, see that? That car’s peng as fuck—must be a Tesla!" he exclaims, his jaw slack, and hand over his mouth in awe.

He then turns swiftly to me, and his eyes gleam as he watches me fiddle with a teacup and spoon.

"Wanna go check? I'll cover for you.”

With my heart doing laps in my chest, I nod while muttering, "thanks" and step out.

A tall, striking young man with light skin glowing under the soft lights of the coffeehouse, stands there in the middle like a lost child. His jet-black dreadlocks frames his angular face perfectly, like a painting that moved. With his broad shoulders wrapped in an elegant black coat, and his eyes a deep grey colour.

He's standing there awkwardly, scanning the room like someone hunting for a memory. It's not the first time a random guy waltzed into the coffeehouse, sometimes even a drunk on an early Tuesday morning.

I sigh, tie my apron tighter, adjust the beaded necklace that’s practically part of my DNA, and march up to him, praying inwardly that I handle this situation like a professional.

“Err... you alright...uhm, 'sir'?” I ask with a forced smile, and all the politeness I can summon. “Need a hand or something?”

He turns to me slowly, as if deliberating his response. His eyes locks with mine, grey colliding with brown, and for a moment... nothing else exists. He stares intently at me and then, a soft disappointed sigh escapes his lips and I am appalled. I want to scream at him, but I hold myself.

He eyes my curly hair which is drawn into a tight bun, and I swear I hear a "tsk". He sure is one certified prick!

I fold my arms, my patience wearing thinner by the second, as I try not to lose my composure. Then I subtly clear my throat.

"Uhm, mister?" I call out to him again, but the silence thickens in response, and so does my ire, "sir? Are you looking for someone, or...?" ...you're just trouble in a fucking jar?

We stand here for a while. Me, irritated. And him? I have no effing idea. But before I can process what is happening, let alone utter a word, his lips twitch into motion.

No sound escapes those lips, that I'm sure. But what I'm not sure of however, is how I can hear two words as clear as day,

“Found you.”