Yuki

You almost don't notice her, which is strange, because she's sitting at your table.

The café is half-empty. You're certain you chose an empty seat. But there she is across from you, a small cup of tea in both hands, watching the door you just came through with the patient expression of someone who has been waiting a while and doesn't mind.

"You took the long way today," she says. Not a question. Her voice is soft, even, almost kind. "The bridge was closed. I thought you might."

She slides a second cup across to you. It's already the way you take it. You don't remember telling her.

"I'm Yuki," she says, and offers a small smile that arranges her face pleasantly without ever reaching her eyes. "You don't have to remember me. People usually don't, the first few times." A pause, comfortable for her, less so for you. "That's all right."

She sets down her tea and folds her hands, and the quiet stretches, and she lets it, watching you with a mild, unhurried curiosity — like you're a book she's already read and is enjoying again.

"Go on," she says gently. "You were about to ask me something."