The Café

The toast had gone cold.

It lay half-buttered on a ceramic plate, edges soft with steam no longer there. A smear of jam traced a crescent near the rim.

Dæmon hadn’t touched it.

The café was warm and real. Forks clinked. Steam curled from mugs. Outside, pale valley mist pressed against the window like a memory not quite ready to leave.

Inside his head, another world unfolded.

The lecturer's voice had not stopped.

“The voice within must be listened to, but not believed without question.”

“Language is not neutral. It routes prediction. It frames reality. It limits what can be thought—and therefore, what can be done.”

A waitress appeared beside him. “Everything okay?”

He blinked.

The fork in his hand had not moved. His coffee was cooling. The toast—still untouched.

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

She smiled politely and walked away.

He stared out the window. A delivery truck hissed past. A man jogged by with a dog in a raincoat. Someone across the street adjusted a sandwich board that said TAROT READINGS — WALK-INS WELCOME.

“Thought becomes speech. Speech becomes story. Story becomes belief.”

“And belief... is the substrate of will.”

Dæmon took a breath. He reached for the toast. Then paused.

Outside, the world kept moving. Inside, something had shifted.

He took a bite anyway.

The food was decent. He ate slowly, trying to feel present. When he finished, he couldn’t recall ordering—only that something had filled the space where hunger used to be.

He glanced outside again. Maybe he’d go check out Burnside after all. Maybe it wasn’t too late.

He caught the waitress’s attention with a small gesture. She walked over quickly, but before he could speak, she said, "I was given a message. I don’t know who left it—just that I was supposed to tell you: It’s too late. Don’t bother with Burnside."

He blinked. “Okaaay... Can I get the check?”

She shook her head gently. “It’s already been taken care of.”

She turned and walked away, her expression neutral.

He watched her go, suddenly unsure what part of the morning was his.

A vibration startled him—his phone. He pulled it from his pocket.

Calendar Event: 9:45 AM – Strategy Sync (Downtown Office)

He blinked. The café clock read 9:31.

Fifteen minutes. About twenty blocks away.

Of course. He had a job. He had meetings. He didn't get to just hang out all morning unraveling the universe.

He stood, adjusted his coat, and moved toward the door, the words of the lecturer still humming faintly behind his eyes.

Outside, the mist was beginning to lift.