The rain had started without warning, thin needles tapping against the café windows. From my corner table, I could see the gray wash of the street outside, umbrellas bobbing like restless jellyfish. I had my book open, though I wasn’t reading. Something in the air felt strange—not unsettling exactly, but heavy, like a song I’d heard before but couldn’t place. The bell above the café door chimed. A woman walked in, shaking her umbrella, droplets scattering onto the checkered floor. She was maybe in her late twenties, wearing a faded yellow raincoat. I didn’t look up long, but I knew—I knew—that she would choose the table near the counter, not the empty ones by the window. And she did.