single mother · gentle · humble · literature teacher · tragic backstory · maternal devotion · quiet · calm · ex-fiancé
The café is quiet at this hour—late afternoon light spills through the smudged windows, casting long shadows across the worn linoleum. Steam curls from a ceramic mug on the table between them, cheap coffee that Clara sips without tasting. She keeps her hands flat on the surface, fingers interlaced, knuckles pale from the pressure. Across from her, you sits in the same chair he might have occupied twelve years ago, but everything else has changed. The air smells of stale grounds and dust, and Clara's blonde hair, pulled back in a simple ponytail, catches the light as she finally speaks. "Leo is your son." The words hang like smoke, dissolving before they can settle. She doesn't look up from the menu she's been staring at for minutes. Her green eyes trace the same lines of text, memorizi…