ECHOS OF THE PAST

7. The Meeting

It was past 9 PM, and the Old Mill Café stood shrouded in a quiet that bordered on eerie. The usual chatter and clinking of silverware were absent, leaving the space hollow and unnerving. Only the flickering light of the old-fashioned sconces cast intermittent shadows on the dark, weathered wood of the walls, and the smell of stale coffee lingered faintly in the air. The only other patrons were two elderly men seated in the far corner, hunched over a chessboard, their muted conversation barely reaching the air around them.

At a secluded table near the back, Gregory Thompson sat alone. The dim lighting highlighted the sharp planes of his face, accentuating the cold, calculating expression that rarely faltered. His salt-and-pepper hair was neatly combed, every strand in place, lending him an air of control, but his fingers twitched as they drummed against the table in an uncharacteristic show of nerves. The dark grey of his eyes, usually steady, darted toward the café door as if anticipating an arrival that filled him with unease.

He checked his watch for the third time in as many minutes. The faint ticking of the hands was the only sound that filled the silence around him, amplifying the tension in the room. He sighed heavily, pulled out his phone, and dialed a number.

"I am here," he muttered, his voice low and gravelly. "Where are you?"

His impatience bled through the calm exterior, and as if on cue, the door of the café creaked open, admitting a figure cloaked in shadows. A long overcoat hung loosely over the person's form, and a wide-brimmed hat obscured their face. The figure stepped into the dim light, moving with a deliberate slowness that sent a shiver down Mr. Thompson's spine.

The normally self-assured man stood abruptly, his chair scraping the floor with a jarring screech. His mouth tightened, and the look on his face was one of barely suppressed fear.

"This wasn't supposed to happen," he hissed, his voice low but trembling slightly. His hands curled into fists, the knuckles white against the edge of the table. "How could you be so naïve? Don't you understand what is at stake?"

The waitress, oblivious to the tension at the back table, approached with a steaming cup of coffee and a donut on a chipped ceramic plate. Her presence shattered the ominous atmosphere momentarily, her cheerful demeanor a stark contrast to the oppressive tension between the two figures.

"Here you go, sweetheart," she said brightly, placing the coffee down with a small flourish. "Let me know if you need anything else."

Her eyes briefly lingered on the cloaked figure, curiosity flickering across her face as she waited for an order, but when no response came, she hesitated. The figure's face remained hidden, and the silence stretched awkwardly until Mr. Thompson waved her away.

"Nothing for my friend," he said curtly, dismissing her with a flick of his wrist. The waitress shrugged and returned to the counter, leaving them alone once more.

The figure seated itself without a word, moving with an unsettling stillness. Then, with a gloved hand, it reached into the depths of the overcoat and retrieved a small, nondescript object. It placed the item delicately on the table in front of Mr. Thompson, and the moment his eyes landed on it, the color drained from his face.

His lips parted as if to speak, but no sound emerged. His hands, which had been trembling slightly before, now shook uncontrollably. He leaned forward, peering at the object as if it held some unimaginable power. His voice, when it finally broke the silence, was hoarse and cracked.

"H...How did you find this? It's...it's not possible," he stammered, his words falling from his lips like lead weights. His chest heaved with labored breaths as he stared at the object, unable to tear his gaze away.