Birds chirped outside Andrew's window, their light melody nudging him awake. He opened his eyes slowly, squinting at the morning light peeking through the curtains. His ceiling greeted him with silence.
I know I had a strange dream… but for some reason, I can't remember it.
With a tired groan, he ran a hand through his messy hair and swung his legs over the side of the bed, letting them dangle above the cold floor. "Maybe the dream wasn't that important," he muttered, dragging himself to the bathroom.
The shower blasted warm water over his face, grounding him. Yet, the lingering sense of unease clung to his chest like damp clothes.
---
He plopped down at his comically large dining table—one meant for more than just him—and poured cereal into a bowl. The soft clink of the spoon against the porcelain echoed in the stillness of the apartment. Each bite felt mechanical, the surrounding air around him louder than usual.
After washing the bowl and drying his hands, he stared at his reflection in the kitchen window.
"Let's go make some money today," he said to his reflection, slapping a smile on his face as he grabbed his white jacket and keys.
---
The city buzzed outside his windshield. He drove with the windows cracked slightly, letting in the scent of freshly baked bread from a nearby shop and the exhaust of morning traffic.
So much to do today… Flour from the factory, check in on the new coffee beans, reorder—
His phone rang, cutting through his thoughts.
Caller ID: Mom.
His grip on the steering wheel tightened. The color drained from his face. The light ahead turned red, but he barely registered it—only swerving at the last second to avoid hitting a passerby. Tires screeched. Horns blared.
"Sorry! My brakes—!" he called, lying without thinking as the angry pedestrian shouted profanities.
The phone buzzed again. He stared at it.
Eight years. Why now?
With a trembling hand, he answered. "Hello… Mom?"
"Andrew," her voice snapped like a whip, "what kind of son are you? If I hadn't called, were you planning to ignore us for the rest of your life?"
His chest tightened. Not even a "how are you?" No concern. Just accusation.
"Not even a greeting after eight years. Nice to see nothing's changed," he muttered bitterly, gripping the phone tighter.
"This is why your father gave up on you. You're still arrogant. Still headstrong. When will you come crawling back and beg for forgiveness? You could've had a position in the company. Instead, you're running a damn café."
Her words slammed into him like fists, each one duller than the last—but not painless.
"If that's all you called for, I'm hanging up," Andrew said, his tone low and cold.
"Don't flatter yourself. I only called because your brother's being promoted to director. There's a party, and I had to beg your father to let you come. Not that you've earned it."
He didn't reply. He didn't need to. Silence was louder.
"I'm not going," he said flatly, and ended the call.
---
Pulling into the café's lot, Andrew sat motionless, the engine still humming. His hands rested on the wheel, fingers trembling. His jaw clenched as old memories resurfaced.
Before Leonard was born, he always wore hand-me-downs, always received the leftovers. At the time, he thought it was just the way things were. But looking back… it was always deliberate. His parents returned from vacations and fancy dinners with excuses and empty hands.
When Leonard came into the picture, he vanished from theirs.
Even when Leonard bullied him or messed up, Andrew took the blame. They called it maturity. He called it erasure.
And when he asked to go to baking school—his dream—they refused. Even when he offered to pay. "A baker in the Sebastian family? You'll ruin our name."
He remembered their sneers. "You'll never succeed."
And yet here he was—still standing. Own a successful café.
He stepped out of the car with a smile tugging at his lips. "I'll keep slapping their faces. With every single success."
---
"Good morning, my employees!" Andrew burst through the door, hands raised like a victorious announcer. "Today, we make money!"
"Yes, sir! Let's make some money!" Timothy replied with exaggerated enthusiasm, flashing a thumbs up.
"Little Timmy, always sucking up to the boss," Lisa teased, laughing as she wiped down the counter.
The café buzzed with warmth and energy. Coffee machines hissed, plates clinked, and the soft murmur of satisfied customers filled the air.
Then the bell above the door jingled.
Chase waltzed in dramatically, striking a pose. "Chase is here again! I know you all missed me."
Andrew rolled his eyes, smirking. "Here comes our favorite moocher."
"Hey, hey! I'm not a moocher today," Chase protested, holding up a small shopping bag like a trophy. "I brought gifts from my trip! Proof that I spend money!"
He pulled out snacks and trinkets with flair. "Dollar bills, rain down on me! Let the haters choke on their envy!" he cried, raising his arms like he was performing on a soap opera stage.
Lisa giggled. "He's hopeless."
Andrew chuckled. "And dramatic."
Then the door jingled again.
Someone stepped in. The air shifted. Not just from the wind, but something else—an intangible weight, like the hush before a storm.
The stranger was slender, average in height, and dressed casually: white t-shirt, black jeans, white sneakers. Blue hair, roughly tousled, and sunglasses that concealed half his face—yet couldn't hide his presence.
Andrew's breath caught slightly.
He wasn't sure why. But something about the stranger felt… familiar.