The moldy, damp, sick looking wooden bench I'm sitting on is bending down in the middle, no longer cannot bear its burden. I can tell that without looking directly at it. One of the sides feels declining to the touch, like a gentle slope.

There are only two benches in the cafe. The other one has its integrity uncompromised. I would take my chance at it unless of course, those five balloon-like figures with pale skins weren’t sitting on top of it. A cluttered-blood looking goo is leaking out of their bodies with a mild oozing sound. The bench is soaked, covered in red. What are they called by the people on the other side?

I don’t seem to recall that anymore.

The inside of my mouth feels like sandpaper as my desire for some tea grows. Chai would be better. The stronger it is, the more it can quench my incessant thirst. But Tessan isn’t coming back with tea. He often forgets. Perhaps it’s an act. He just doesn’t care. He’s the owner after all. Sometimes he’s absent for days on end. The customers sit there, patiently. Brooding. Waiting for him. They don’t really go away. Leaving is often out of the question.

A particular repetitive clicking sound resonates in my ears. As if someone is rubbing a teacup on a plate. A bunch of centipedes are circling a rosemary bush on the floor with hurrying delight, emitting neon-like blue light out of their tiny heads.

That clicking sound has turned into a smacking one. Now I’m annoyed. I look for the source of that noise.

Uh-oh!

One of the legs of my bench is trying to lift itself up and the one on the opposite is trying to pull it down. Every time they go through this back and forth tugging ritual, an empty cup on the bench jumps up a little in the air and falls back down. Hence, the noise.

An involuntary sigh escapes me. Everything comes back alive once you’re dead, the living, the inanimate—all of it. And they keep repeating themselves here. I would never bang a cup if I only knew that. Before now, before all of this. When I finally knew, I couldn’t see my reflection in the mirror anymore, nor did I have a shadow.

Tessan finally appears. He’s looking quite thin now. That’s not the case all the time. Sometimes he’s big as an ogre. Isn't that amusing?! Has anybody ever heard of an ogre as a waiter? I think he changes with the dark sun. Only a theory though. I once asked him about it. He remained silent. Perhaps I should have asked in a more polite way. Whereas I chuckled as if it was so funny a matter. Well, in my defense, it was—but I shouldn’t have told him that! Another thing I seem to forget quite often—the shadowless are quite a defensive bunch.

WHAM!

Tessan dumps a big pile of foams on the bench those balloons occupied.

"Twice, thrice, four times you will scour my bench. Yes, you will! Then you will eat those. Yes, you will! Or, I will pop you! All of you! Yes, I will!"

Tessan’s voice seems hoarse. The balloons paused at his vehemence, silent all of them. It seems they want to retaliate. I feel some curiosity accumulating in me. But the tension cleared away suddenly. Shrugging, the balloons got to work.

It's the darndest thing, isn’t it? CITIZENS of this shadowless world are at mercy of the cafe owners. Broke something? You will have to pay through your nose. Else you're done for. And what do you treat your customers with? Some old broken benches. I couldn't muster up the courage to speak up. I traded my voice for the privilege of being here. SOME YOU WIN, some you lose. Also, can't risk getting kicked out right now. I don't remember what day I've entered the cafe. It might be night outside. And who doesn't know the night brings out all the bleak monstrosities this godforsaken world has to offer—the void. Even the ever beaming light-posts do not risk the night.

"Tessan", I timidly ask. "My tea?"

A minute went by. Tessan slowly lifted his head. Looked at my face. And then bent down over by the counter. I can hear the clunking noise of utensils. Brass made cups it seems. A sense of delight fills my gut. Brass cups are nicer than ceramic ones. Terracotta is the best but we don't have them on this side. Perhaps the earth doesn't let go of the affection she feels for her own. Am I not her own?

The tea is lukewarm. I don't mind it. It would be fine as cold as well for I know for a fact that there is no stove or cooker in the cafe. How does he warm it? Nevermind. I'm better off ignorant.

My bench is no longer thumping. The balloons seem bigger now with all those foams in them. I should get going.

"How is it outside?" I ask.
"Father is still with us. Yes, he is." Tessan replies.

I know he means the sun. I pick up my shawl and walk a few steps. The circling centipedes are infuriated by my insolence, they start to threaten me with their tiny legs lifted in the air, hissing all the while. Ignoring them, I stepped out.

Some pale undergrowth a few yards south-east. I hear a whimpering cry. It's causing a slight vibration in the air. As if a machine came back alive and now complaining about all the brutal treatment it had to go through on the other side. It could be just that. I have seen machines do that here. Complain, that is. But I know that sound—that incessant buzzing. It's no machine. Anyway, it's not my business. I have no obligation. I start to move away.

After fifty yards and a world of hesitation, I turn back. Slowly trace back to the source of the noise. Then I pick up the unborn baby. So warm. Perhaps still in its mother's womb on the other side. They don't often come here. Since they can't talk yet, all they do is that buzzing. The shadowless usually do nothing about it. It's better to let the void take them than to keep constant noise emitters. They say, that particular sound calls to the void. Also, why would they do it in the first place?

Other shadowless often reproach me coldly that something is wrong with me. Perhaps they are right. Perhaps I still have a piece of the other side. And the burden that is humanity is ever-present in it.

I look up. The sun has a dark halo around it. Soon night will spread its vast wings. Can't go back to the cafe. They won't let that unborn in. Although, there is a place. Two clicks north. In the marshland. The road is perilous and there's no guaranty they'll take us in. I guess I will have to keep hoping. Nowhere else I can take the baby.

I carefully wrap my shawl around the unborn, then I press on to the north. Time is a luxury I don't have.

Tick... Tock...

The End