Chapter 13: Small inconsistencies

The café James chose had no name on the front—just fogged glass and a bell that rang too loudly when you walked in. Abigail liked it immediately. It felt like a place that existed slightly out of time, where conversations went to hide.

“You come here often?” she asked as they slid into a booth near the window.

James hesitated. Just for half a second.

“Yeah,” he said. “All the time.”

She smiled. “Funny. You never mentioned it.”

He shrugged, casual. “Guess it never came up.”

The waitress arrived, cheerful in a tired way. “Same as usual?”

James opened his mouth—then stopped.

“Uh… yeah,” he said. “Sure.”

Abigail watched him carefully. When the waitress left, she teased, “You forgot your usual?”

He laughed too fast. “Guess I’m more tired than I thought.”

They talked about nothing for a while—movies they liked, places they wanted to travel, childhood memories that felt more like sketches than photographs. Abigail noticed something strange: whenever she asked James about anything specific—dates, locations, people—his answers stayed vague.

“So where did you go to school?” she asked, stirring her coffee.

“Here and there,” he said. “Moved around a lot.”

“Like… where?”

He smiled. “You really like details, huh?”

“Only because I forget mine sometimes,” she replied lightly.

That earned another pause.

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “Me too.”

Later, they walked through a small bookstore nearby. James drifted toward the fiction section, fingers trailing along the spines like he was checking names off a list.

“You ever notice,” he said, “how books remember things people don’t?”

Abigail tilted her head. “That’s… a weirdly sad thought.”

“Accurate, though.”

She pulled a random book from the shelf. “This one’s about grief.”

James didn’t look surprised. “Of course it is.”

That night, when she got home, Abigail found a message from Maya, one of her friends.

Maya: Hey. Random question. How long have you known James?

Abigail frowned.

Abigail: A few months. Why?

There was a delay. Then:

Maya: Just curious. I feel like I should remember him, but I don’t.

Abigail stared at the screen, her stomach tightening.

Abigail: You’ve met him twice.

Maya: I know. That’s what’s weird.

She set the phone down and rubbed her temples. The room felt too quiet. Her reflection in the dark TV screen looked tired—older than she remembered being.

Her phone buzzed again. James this time.

James: Did you have a good day?

She typed, erased, then typed again.

Abigail: Yeah. Did you?

Three dots appeared.

Then disappeared.

Then reappeared.

James: Always better when you’re in it.

She smiled, but the unease didn’t fade.

When she lay in bed later, staring at the ceiling, a thought slipped in uninvited:

She could describe James’s smile perfectly.

His voice.

The way he said her name.

But when she tried to picture him before they met—where he came from, what his life looked like—

Her mind went blank.

Outside, a car alarm wailed briefly, then stopped.

And somewhere in that silence, something inside Abigail shifted—just enough to crack.