The bell above the café door jingled as Alastor stepped inside, the familiar warmth of coffee and baked goods filling the air of the café known as Brooklyn Brew. Mr. Thompson was behind the counter, his hands moving with practiced ease as he tamped down the grounds, his face lined with years of quiet experience. The sound of the espresso machine hissed as steam swirled, a small slice of normalcy in the rhythm of the café.
"You're late," Thompson said without looking up, his voice thick with mild reproach but softened by the familiarity of routine.
Alastor removed his jacket with a careful motion, hanging it over the back of the chair by the door. He stretched his shoulders, the faintest crack of discomfort passing through him as he straightened. "Needed some air," he replied, his voice as steady as ever.
"Air's free, but time's not," Thompson muttered, adjusting the pressure on the espresso machine. "Dinner's in the oven, but don't let it burn like last week."
Alastor's lips twitched upward, a small smile of acknowledgment. He moved toward the kitchen, opening the oven door to reveal a tray of lasagna. The warm smell filled the small space, a reminder of the simple comforts he was learning to appreciate. With a careful hand, he pulled it out and set it on the counter, the movement smooth yet deliberate, as if the weight of it took more than just a moment's thought. He paused, but only for a beat, before plating it.
Two months. That's how long he had been here. Long enough that the daily rhythm of Earth life—small, predictable moments—had begun to take root. The bustling streets of Brooklyn, the noise of the café, the mundane exchanges with customers—it all felt strange, yet it was beginning to settle into him like the steady hum of the espresso machine.
The apartment wasn't much—an old building with creaky floors and walls that seemed to hum with the voices of the past. It had become a home, though, ever since Alastor had moved in with Mr. Thompson. The old mechanic had offered him the place without a second thought when Alastor had first arrived, looking for a quiet space to gather himself. In the weeks that followed, they'd settled into a comfortable routine, the two of them navigating their separate worlds within the same small space.
Thompson's apartment was still filled with tools and half-finished projects, the remnants of a life spent fixing, rebuilding, creating. He'd been a mechanic for decades before retiring, but it seemed he couldn't quite give up the habit. His hands moved with a deliberate slowness, finding comfort in the disassembly of small, ordinary machines.
The bell above the door jingled again as a few customers filtered in, the soft murmur of conversation mixing with the clatter of cups and the hiss of the coffee machine. Alastor moved behind the counter, the usual order of things falling into place. A couple sat down at the counter, giving him a polite nod as they sifted through their phones, their attention as fleeting as the steam rising from the mugs. He reached for the register, moving with a fluidity that spoke to years of practice—though his wrist felt a little tighter today.
"Restock aisle three when you've got a minute," his manager called from the back.
Alastor nodded, his movements easy, though the slight ache in his shoulder wasn't something he could ignore. He shifted his posture subtly, as if the effort to ease the discomfort didn't deserve acknowledgment. Still, there was no sign of it in his face—he looked, as always, the same youthful man who could easily pass for someone in their mid-20s. The façade, however, didn't hide everything.
By late afternoon, the café had quieted. Alastor leaned against the counter, his gaze drifting outside, where the world of Brooklyn rushed past. A few people were already bundled up against the coming chill, their faces a blur in the crisp autumn air. He exhaled slowly, wondering—no, feeling—how long he would keep this routine. How long he could play the part of someone who had nothing to hurry for.
The streetlights flickered on as the sun sank lower, casting a cool amber glow over the sidewalks. It was a comfortable evening, the hum of the city never quite quieting, but Alastor didn't mind. There was something about the noise that made the silence feel more tolerable.
As he returned to the apartment that evening, Mr. Thompson was sitting in his recliner, staring at a small motor on the coffee table, tools scattered around it in disarray. The old mechanic's hands moved with a practiced slowness, carefully disassembling the parts, pausing only when necessary to inspect or tighten a screw.
"You get used to it, don't you?" Alastor said, slipping off his shoes.
"Used to what?" Thompson replied without looking up, his voice rumbling like distant thunder.
"The routine. The days all blend together," Alastor said, lowering himself into the chair across from him. "But I guess that's the point."
Thompson grunted, then paused, considering Alastor with a sideways glance. "I didn't think you'd ever be one to settle down. Thought you'd be chasing something bigger." His fingers tapped idly on the motor before picking up the next wrench. "But you're here. So, what's the story?"
Alastor's gaze lingered on the scattered parts of the motor—small, ordinary things that would never be more than that. Yet there was a strange comfort in them. A simplicity that felt, somehow, like peace. "Maybe I'm chasing quiet," he said softly, the words feeling unfamiliar even as they left his lips.
Mr. Thompson chuckled softly under his breath, but his gaze returned to the motor. "Well, you might get your fill of that. But don't stay quiet for too long, kid. Life's short."
Alastor paused, his fingers idly tracing the rim of his coffee mug. "I'm starting to realize that," he said, the words barely above a whisper.