Burden begins

The bell over the café door gave a reluctant little ring, half-swallowed by the patter of rain on the awning outside. Evening had soaked the city to the bone, streets running with oily water, car headlights dragging pale streaks across the puddled pavement. Inside, warmth clung to the windows, breath and steam fogging the glass. The air smelled of damp wool coats, burned sugar from the espresso machine, and the faint tang of disinfectant from the mop that Anfisa had dragged across the floor an hour ago.

It was her eighth shift this week. Her apron strings dug into her waist, a fraying thread hung from the hem, and her shoes were slick with coffee stains that no scrubbing could lift anymore. She pressed her palm against the counter to keep herself from yawning while she refilled the glass dome of pastries with croissants that had already lost their crispness.

The café wasn’t full, but it wasn’t empty either. A cluster of students occupied the table by the window, their voices overlapping as they argued about an exam. One boy gestured wildly with a pen, nearly toppling his cup, while the girl across from him rolled her eyes and scribbled notes she clearly didn’t intend to share.

Near the door, a pair of factory workers slumped over mugs of black coffee, the smell of metal and sweat radiating from their clothes. They spoke in low, gravelly tones, discussing tomorrow’s shift schedule like generals plotting a hopeless campaign.

At the far end, a middle-aged man in a cheap suit sat alone, tie loosened, staring into his glass of brandy as though expecting it to answer him. Occasionally he muttered something under his breath, but his words were swallowed by the soft drone of the ceiling fan.

And then there was the couple. Young, reckless, the sort of pair who seemed to believe the whole world was theirs. The girl leaned across the table, lipstick smudged on the boy’s mouth, their laughter too loud for the small room. One of the students gave them a look, but they didn’t notice.

Anfisa moved between these fragments of lives like a shadow. Her tray balanced against her hip, her shoes squeaking faintly on the linoleum, her voice automatic:

“Refill? Anything else? Sugar on the side?”

She smiled when expected, retreated when dismissed. Her existence was service, quiet and necessary, like the hum of the refrigerator in the corner.

Behind the counter, Lena, her coworker for the night, leaned against the espresso machine and scrolled through her phone, painted nails clicking against the screen.

“You look dead,” Lena murmured without glancing up.

“Feel dead,” Anfisa replied, sliding a bill into the register.

“You should’ve called in.”

“And lose the shift pay?”

Anfisa shook her head, not even angry. Just tired.

Lena smirked faintly, tapping the counter with a nail.

“Suit yourself, martyr.”

It was then the bell rang again. The man who entered didn’t belong. Not in the way the couple belonged, flaunting themselves, nor in the way the students belonged with their clutter of books, nor even the lonely drunk who belonged by being sad in the right kind of place.

This man slipped inside like a shadow carried by the rain. His coat was dark, plain, still dripping at the hem. He moved without hurry, yet there was a precision in the way he folded himself into the corner table near the back, as if he had already measured the distance from the door, the angle of the windows, the nearest exits.

Anfisa noticed him only because noticing was her job. Another customer, another cup, another plate. He didn’t take off his coat. He sat with his back to the wall, the hood shadowing his face, and for a moment she wondered if he would sit there all night without ordering a thing.

She approached, pad in hand. “Evening. What can I get you?”

His voice was low, unremarkable, but it lingered longer in her ears than it should have.

“Black coffee. No sugar.”

That was all.

No smile. No glance at the menu. No small talk.

“Coming right up.”

She forced the usual little smile and stepped away, feeling oddly relieved when she wasn’t under his gaze. Not that he had looked at her directly — it was more like he had measured her, the way one might glance at a clock to know the time.

She poured his coffee, carried it over, set it down. He nodded once in acknowledgment, fingers brushing the edge of the cup, already cooling before he touched it.

Minutes stretched.

She served the students another pot of tea. The couple slipped out, still laughing, leaving lipstick marks on the rim of their cups. The factory men finished their coffee and trudged into the night. The drunk in the suit fell asleep against his arm, muttering into his sleeve.

And still the man in the corner sat. His coffee drained slowly, his posture unchanged. From time to time, his hand slipped into his pocket, drawing out a small device — not a phone, not exactly — but some black, featureless thing that glinted faintly when it caught the light. He tapped it once, twice, then slid it away.

Anfisa tried not to stare. She told herself it wasn’t her business. She told herself customers came in all sorts — secretive, strange, tired, drunk, ordinary. But something about him pressed against her nerves like a blade against paper.

When she passed his table again, he spoke, just enough to catch her attention.

“Long shift.”

She blinked. “Sorry?”

His gaze lifted, finally, from the shadows of his hood. His eyes were a gray so pale they seemed almost translucent, like frost spread across glass.

“You’ve been here a while,” he said simply.

“Oh. Yes.”

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, suddenly conscious of the frayed edge of her apron, the circles under her eyes.

“It’s nothing unusual.”

He nodded once, as if that were answer enough, and returned to his coffee.

Their conversation ended there, as quickly as it began.

She went back to her rounds. She wiped tables, refilled cups, exchanged glances with Lena who mouthed a silent weirdo from behind the counter. Anfisa almost laughed, but didn’t.

The rain outside thickened, hissing against the windows. Streetlamps bled gold light into the wet street, where a stray dog nosed through garbage bags and shook itself violently. Cars crawled past, wipers beating frantic rhythms.

It was nearly closing when the man in the corner finally rose. He left enough coins on the table to cover the coffee and stepped toward the door, pulling his hood tighter against the rain.

Anfisa carried her tray over, scooping up the empty cup. The saucer was damp from condensation, the spoon resting neatly across it, and next to the coins lay something she didn’t notice until the tray tilted.

A sliver of silver. No bigger than her thumbnail.

She picked it up between two fingers. Smooth, metallic, with a faint groove along one side. A memory card, she realized after a second. Odd that someone would carry one loose like this, and odder still that he hadn’t taken it with him.

She turned it over in her hand, brow furrowing.

“Whatcha got?” Lena’s voice floated from behind, curious but disinterested.

“Just… something he left.”

“Pocket junk.”

Lena shrugged, already locking the till. “Toss it.”

Anfisa slipped it into her apron pocket instead. Not because she meant to keep it, but because something about throwing it away felt wrong. She told herself she’d put it aside, maybe return it if the man came back. Customers lost things all the time — umbrellas, scarves, a watch once. This was no different.

She finished wiping down the table, straightened the chair, and glanced out the window. The rain showed no sign of stopping. She sighed, thinking of the walk home, the weak heater in her flat, the ache already building in her calves.

And then the night broke.

A sudden flare of blue lights sliced across the window. The sharp wail of sirens cut through the soft murmur of the café. Red and blue strobed against the walls, painting the drunk’s face in garish color.

Lena swore under her breath.“What now?”

Anfisa froze, hand still in her apron pocket where the small silver card rested against her palm. The sirens dulled, then cut, leaving only the hiss of rain and the hollow thump of boots splashing against pavement. A voice outside barked something short, clipped, commanding.

The bell above the café door jangled open, harder than it had ever swung all night. Two uniformed officers stepped in first, shoulders squared, rain dripping from the peaks of their caps. Behind them followed three more, moving in a practiced line. Their entrance was loud, almost theatrical, but the way they spread through the room was quieter — a measured sweep of eyes across tables, doors, shadows.

The café seemed to shrink.

Lena muttered a curse under her breath and reached for a rag she didn’t need. The drunk in the corner jerked awake, rubbing his face, confusion thick in his voice.

“Wha—what’s this? Time to go?”

The students by the window sat stiffly, pens forgotten, the boy’s mouth frozen halfway through a word.

Anfisa didn’t move. Her hand pressed against her apron pocket where the small silver card lay hidden. It was weightless, she knew, but her palm felt its presence like a stone pressing down, heavier with each passing second. She swallowed hard, praying no one noticed.

One officer, tall and narrow-eyed, cleared his throat.

“Routine check. IDs, if you please. Nothing to worry about.”

His voice was smooth, rehearsed, the kind of voice meant to calm — but his eyes scanned the room like a hawk, pausing a moment too long on each face.

The drunk raised a sloppy hand.

“Don’t—don’t got it with me,” he slurred, trying to push himself upright.

“Left it at home. You—hic—you can ask my wife, she’ll tell you—”

Another officer, stockier, moved in with a sigh.

“Name.”

“Dmitri Ivanovich.”

“Date of birth.”

“Eighty-three. July.”

“Address?”

The drunk rattled off something half-coherent. The officer wrote it down anyway, though his expression said he didn’t believe a word.

At the students’ table, a different officer checked their papers. One girl fumbled through her bag, pulling out a student ID with trembling hands.

“We were just studying,” she blurted.

“It’s late, that’s all, just studying.”

“Nobody said you weren’t.”

The officer’s tone was neutral, but he flipped her ID over twice as if it might reveal a secret if he looked long enough.

Lena leaned closer to Anfisa, whispering,

“Always routine until someone disappears for a week.”

“Don’t,”

Anfisa murmured, throat tight.

She felt eyes on her, though none of the officers had come to her table yet. The card in her pocket seemed to hum. She forced herself to breathe evenly, to keep wiping the already clean surface in front of her.

And outside, just beyond the pale glow of the streetlamp, Valkyrie stood in the rain.

He had left the café minutes ago, coins dropped on the table, coffee unfinished. He had walked half the block before the sirens came, their pitch cutting through the night. Instinct — sharpened by years of evasion — had pulled him into the shadows between a shuttered bookstore and a drainpipe slick with moss. He watched the flashing lights glide past, then stop. Right in front of the café.

His stomach hardened.

He should have kept walking. He should have disappeared down the next alley, melted into the city’s arteries the way he always did. But something dragged his gaze back to the window, to the dim, warm interior where the waitress was clearing his table. And then — the flicker of silver.

He had seen it only for an instant, the size of her thumbnail glinting in the low light before her hand closed around it. A memory card. His memory card.

Cold washed through him, sharper than the rain soaking his coat. He had no memory of dropping it, but there it was. He could almost feel its edges in his pocket, phantom weight. Every file, every name, every blurred image — exposed. If it was found, years of shadows would collapse into daylight.

And the girl had put it in her pocket.

He shifted, pressing his back against the brick wall, watching. She wasn’t aware. Her movements were clumsy, ordinary, the way people moved when they had no reason to suspect eyes on them. That was worse. Innocence was unpredictable.

Inside, one officer now approached the counter.

“IDs, ladies.”

Lena slipped hers out from her phone case with a practiced sigh.

“Here. Happy?”

The officer examined it.

“And you?”

His gaze fell on Anfisa.

Her mouth went dry.

“Yes. One moment.”

Her hands fumbled at the apron knot, tugging at it too quickly. The card pressed against her hip with every move, burning. She dug into the small purse she kept beneath the counter, producing her worn ID. Her fingers shook only slightly, but enough that she noticed.

The officer studied the card under the buzzing light.

“Anfisa Ivanovna. Twenty-three.”

“Yes.”

He looked from the ID to her face, then back again. The silence stretched, filled only by the sound of rain and the drunk snoring again in the corner.

“Long shift?”

the officer asked suddenly.

“Yes,” she replied too quickly.

He narrowed his eyes, but handed the card back.

“Stay safe walking home.”

She forced a small nod.

Outside, Valkyrie’s jaw tightened. The police weren’t here by accident. He had been careful, meticulous. And yet, here they were, combing through a café he had chosen for no reason but quiet. Coincidence was dangerous. He didn’t believe in it.

He shifted his gaze back to the girl — Anfisa, the officer had called her. She had slipped the ID away, her hand brushing unconsciously against her apron pocket. Against the card.

Valkyrie’s mind worked like clockwork gears, slow but relentless. Options unfurled and collapsed in sequence. Retrieve it now? Impossible, the room was crawling with uniforms. Wait until later? Risky — too many eyes, too much noise, too much chance of it being noticed before he could act. But leave it? Out of the question.

Inside, the routine check dragged on. The students whispered to each other after the officers moved away. The drunk snored again, only to be shaken awake and warned about loitering. Lena muttered curses under her breath whenever one of the men glanced too long at her.

“Let’s go,”

the tall officer finally announced.

“Clear.”

Boots shuffled, caps tilted against the rain as the police filtered back out into the night. The door swung shut, bell clattering, sirens flickering once more before receding into distance.

The café exhaled.

“Waste of time,”

Lena muttered, already pulling off her apron.

“Always is.”

The students laughed nervously, relieved. The drunk ordered another coffee, though he didn’t have the money for it.

Anfisa stood still, hand still pressed against her pocket. The card was there, safe, unnoticed. Yet it didn’t feel safe at all.

And outside, in the dripping shadows, Valkyrie remained motionless.

He had seen enough. He had his answer.

The girl had what was his.

He waited

The café limped toward closing as if the intrusion had never happened, though the air still hummed faintly with what had passed. The police were gone, but their presence lingered in the nervous laughter of the students, in Lena’s muttered curses as she scrubbed down the counter too hard, in the way Anfisa still couldn’t stop brushing her palm against her apron pocket as if to reassure herself that the tiny silver shard of metal was still there.

By half past midnight, the students had gathered their notebooks and left in a flurry of wet umbrellas and whispered complaints. The drunk in the corner had been coaxed to his feet and sent stumbling into the rain after a brief argument over his unpaid bill. Only the man in the cheap suit remained for a while longer, nursing his brandy as if it might refill itself, before he too sighed and dragged himself out into the storm.

The café felt empty after that, the space echoing with the small sounds of cleaning — cloth against tabletops, the rattle of cups stacked into neat towers, the faint squeak of the mop across the floor.

It was one o’clock in the morning when the owner appeared from the back room, keys jangling in one hand, his heavy brows drawn together. A broad-shouldered man in his sixties, beard going white, eyes still sharp with a youth he didn’t admit had passed.

“All right, girls,” he grumbled

Though there was no heat in it.

“Another day done, eh? Not one of you left me a single ruble richer.”

“You mean not one of us,” Lena shot back

Tossing her rag onto the counter.

“We made you plenty, old man. You just drink it away.”

The owner barked a laugh, wagging a finger.

“Careful, girl. One of these days, I’ll tell your mother you talk to me like that.”

“She’d pay you to stop talking to me at all.”

Anfisa smiled faintly, leaning on her mop.

“You two sound married.”

“Don’t curse me,”

Lena said, rolling her eyes.

“If I had to live with him, I’d throw myself in the river.”

The old man clutched his chest with exaggerated pain.

“Ah! To be so unappreciated in my own café.”

He laughed again, the sound warm despite the hour.

“Go on, finish up. I want to be in bed before sunrise for once.”

Anfisa bent to wring the mop, shoulders aching with the day’s weight. The banter washed over her like background music — familiar, safe, ordinary. For a moment, she almost believed the police, the sirens, the flashing lights had been nothing more than a dream seeping into waking hours.

But the card pressed against her hip, silent and unyielding, and she knew it wasn’t.

Outside, Valkyrie had not moved far. He stood in the narrow throat of an alley opposite the café, half-hidden behind a dripping drainpipe, his hood pulled low against the rain. His eyes never left the window.

He watched the girl mop the floor, her movements heavy with fatigue, her hair clinging damp to her temples. He watched her laugh quietly at the owner’s jokes, her voice carrying faintly even through the glass. He watched her pause every so often, her hand brushing her apron pocket as though drawn there by instinct.

And each time she touched that pocket, the inevitability deepened.

He turned the facts over in his mind like cards in a deck, careful, precise. He had left the memory card on the table. She had taken it. Not discarded it. Not handed it to her coworker. She had pocketed it. That one decision, however innocent, had tied her to him.

He considered alternatives.

Wait until tomorrow? Too much risk. She might open it, might mention it to someone, might hand it over to the wrong hands. Slip inside the café now, retrieve it unseen? Impossible. The owner, the other girl — too many variables. Follow her home? Yes. Cleaner. Quieter. A place where no eyes would interfere.

But another truth gnawed at him, one that he hated admitting even to himself: she had been noticed. Not by him — he noticed everyone — but by the police. They had seen her face, her ID, her nervousness under their gaze. He didn’t believe in coincidence. What if her name was already written somewhere it shouldn’t be? What if they came back?

Then it would not matter whether she meant to or not. She would carry his ruin in her pocket until the city devoured her for it.

He closed his eyes, letting the rain sting against his skin, drawing his thoughts into order. Attachments were weakness. That creed had carried him this far. But weakness and necessity were not the same. She was not a choice. She was a consequence.

Through the window, he saw the café lights dim one by one. Lena untied her apron and tossed it over a chair, shrugging into her coat. The owner stretched his back, muttering about the cold in his bones. Anfisa wrung out the mop one last time, hung it by the door, and wiped her hands on her skirt.

They laughed again at some small joke. Ordinary. Safe. But not for her.

Valkyrie stepped back into the deeper dark, vanishing from the weak glow of the streetlamp. He would follow her when she left. He would wait until the streets thinned and shadows stretched long, until she was alone enough to disappear without notice. Then he would take back what was his.

Not because he wanted her. Not because he wanted anyone.

Because he had no other choice.

Inside, Anfisa blew out the last candle by the counter and pulled her coat tighter.

“Goodnight,”

she said softly, and pushed through the café door into the rain.

The bell chimed once, the sound swallowed by the storm.

And in the shadows, unseen, he followed.

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