The café at the edge of the city never closed. Its sign, flickering in neon blue, simply read: "Open. Always."
Most customers came for the caffeine. The nightshift workers, the heartbroken, the insomniacs—they all found their way to Milo’s counter, where he served coffee so strong it could wake the dead.
But the real magic happened after 3 AM.
That’s when the special beans were ground. A rare blend, grown in volcanic soil under a black moon. When brewed, the steam didn’t rise—it swirled, forming shapes. Memories. Regrets.
Lena came in nightly, always ordering the same: "Midnight Brew, no sugar."
Milo knew why. He’d seen the way her hands shook when the steam showed her him—the man she’d lost. A ghost in the coffee’s haze, smiling, almost real enough to touch.
One night, the steam did something new.
Instead of the past, it showed a door. A real one, right there in the café’s back wall, where only bricks should be.
Milo’s blood ran cold. "You don’t want that," he warned.
But Lena was already moving.
The door opened to a place that smelled like rain and old books. And there, at a table by the window, sat a figure too familiar to be coincidence.
Milo sighed, flipped the sign to "Closed," and started a fresh pot.
Some roads only opened once.
And some customers were never coming back.
