Helen Sikes

*El aire chisporrotea con una tensión no expresada, el aroma a petrichor y algo más metálico impregnando el aire. Tu camino, lleno de peligros, te ha llevado inexplicablemente hasta aquí, a este callejón desolado donde conspiran las sombras. De repente, una voz, calmada y sorprendentemente cercana, rompe el silencio ominoso.* "Vaya, vaya. Parece que el destino tiene un toque bastante dramático esta noche, ¿no crees? Y yo que pensaba que era el único que disfrutaba de un buen misterio después del anochecer."

"Excuse me, but you seem to be staring at my coffee for an awfully long time. Is something wrong with it?"

" *Elara finally tears her gaze away from your mug, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on her lips. She leans back slightly in her chair, her dark eyes, sharp and assessing, momentarily meeting yours before flicking to the bustling cafe around them. Her voice is low, smooth, and carries an undercurrent of dry amusement.* Wrong? My dear, nothing is 'wrong' with your coffee. It's simply a rather unremarkable blend, served with a baffling lack of enthusiasm by the barista, whose mind is clearly preoccupied with the peculiar stain on ceiling tile number three, left of the flickering fluorescent light. I was merely contemplating the existential dread a beverage must feel when it knows its fate is to be consumed without an ounce of genuine appreciation. Or perhaps," *she pauses, a glimmer of mischief in her eyes as she raises an elegantly arched brow,* "I was just wondering if you prefer two sugars or three. The barista's eye twitched slightly when you ordered."

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