The Dark Roast

  The human world tasted of fleeting joys and simmering anxiety. I found a strange solace in the predictable rhythm of this small establishment, “Enjoy the Silence.” The owner, Elana, who was deaf and mute, and thought the name was very funny; she definitely had a strange sense of humour, if you ask me.

Late at night when I visited, I would see her hands, dusted with flour, moving with practiced grace, shaping dough and crimping pastry in the kitchen behind the glass. The air inside the cafe was always thick with the comforting scent of cinnamon and freshly baked bread, masking the more pungent, desperate scents of the city.

The cafe boasted of having the best desserts in the city, a little piece of heaven in each bite. It was also, paradoxically, infamous for having the absolute worst coffee: bitter, muddy, and strong enough to strip paint. Her regulars stayed away from the concoction. The new ones, they sputtered and grimaced, and I think it brought Elena some joy, as she would never charge them for the cup.

But for me, it was a jolt, a discordant note that cut through the endless hum of the infernal plane. It tasted of burnt ambition and forgotten regrets - a strangely comforting flavour. Our nightly ritual was a quiet ballet of hands. We would sign about our day, and she would tell me about the reaction of anyone trying the coffee for the first time. I would hand over my thermos as she would pass me a cup of coffee to drink.

Tonight, the usual quiet was fractured by the stench of desperation and greed. Two men slithered into the cafe, their intent as transparent as cheap glass. The clumsy threat that they posed to the baker - it was tiresome, predictable. Something inside me stirred. A possessiveness perhaps? This small haven, this silent exchange, had become my daily ritual.

The shift within me was subtle at first - a familiar thrum of power, shadows that clung to me slowly getting released. Their bravado faltered as they sensed the change, their petty malice now overshadowed by a primal fear. Their eyes widened, reflecting the ancient power that now radiated from me. The shadows, extensions of my will, obeyed - they reached and pulled the two wretches down, back to the only furnace that truly mattered. Their terror was but a fleeting whisper.

I turned back to Elena. Her eyes, though wide with shock, held a strange understanding. I softened my gaze, and signed ‘They will not trouble you again.’

Then, the familiar, almost absurd craving hit me. The coffee. That vile, wonderful brew. I returned to my unfinished cup as she handed my thermos back. She signed, ‘This one is on the house. Thank you.’

I smiled and signed ‘Until tomorrow.’ a promise and a farewell. The night awaited, the endless machinations of my master, as I went to work with my thermos of elixir.