The day she had met him was the day she had come face to face with death. Even at the age of 23, it was still vivid in her mind—the image of her drenched in a pool of blood, cradling the small boy in her arms as she begged him to stay. The angel smiling at her one last time before his body fell limp. She remembered she hadn’t been scared—she had been filled with nothing but fury. Even as the knife-wielding man had approached her with a sick, twisted grin plastered on his face, all she had felt was pure, sheer rage. He had lunged and she had screamed as she flung herself at him with all of her force, her fingers gripped tightly around a large rock. Then she recalled the appalling sound that escaped as she felt the hem of her shirt warm with blood. It had been a gasp of realization; an utter gasp of acceptance—that her story was coming to an end before she had the chance to place pen against paper.  

Then the knife had suddenly fallen to the floor with a vivid clink as the man stepped backward, dislodging the knife from her stomach in the process. Her legs had lost all their strength as she slumped onto her knees, pressing her fingers against her bloody wound. The man gave a pained, desperate gasp for air as if someone had stretched his lungs out like rubber, only to crush them to powder. Then he fell over. Dead.

The last thing she remembered before completely blacking out was the feeling of comfort, of safety. She was safe in the arms of the angel carrying her. The angel of death. He had skin paler than the moon and dark eyes deeper than the uncharted waters of the ocean.  

--

It was exactly 3 in the morning when she walked into the almost deserted café. She was in the midst of working late into the night—perhaps even pulling an all-nighter—to finish this damned group project that everyone decided to abandon at the last minute. And five minutes before three, she had drained her last drop of black coffee. So here she was, in the dead of night, digging into her pocket to produce some spare change for a quick coffee run.

The barista greeted her with a tired smile, completed the transaction, and then went off to make her coffee. Chaerin stood there for a brief, awkward moment, completely lost in thought as she ran her fingers through her messy, long black hair. The project was due soon and being the only one who actually cared about her grade, the work seemed like it would never end. She was at crossroads and wanted to rip out all of her hair. The barista gave her the cup of piping hot black coffee and an encouraging smile as she eyed the overflowing folder Chaerin had secured under her arm.   

She placed the folder onto the table by the window and sat down, her shoulders slouching with exhaustion. Then she reached for her cup of black coffee—only to knock it over. She gave a surprised shout as the hot liquid spilled all over the contents of her folder, causing the pages to wilt like the petals of a flower succumbing to the brutal cold in winter. Tears of frustration sprang to her eyes as the despair began to settle in. Then she felt a gentle tap on her shoulder. She looked up slowly, with tear filled eyes, at the man in front of her. He smiled briefly at her as he offered her a couple of napkins. She thanked him and rushed to clean up the remains of the bitter liquid. Then she turned around to face the stranger again, only to find that he was gone. The café was empty, save the employee. A strange, unsettling feeling lurched in her stomach but she dismissed it and turned back around to face her destroyed project. She had better things to worry about.

She blinked twice in pure disbelief. The folder lay in front of her—completely untouched and pristine. And the cup of black coffee sat on the table, full to the brim. Perhaps even fuller than it had been minutes ago. But she swore she had spilled her coffee, there was no mistake in that. Chaerin was a clumsy person and an even clumsier student. She frowned, confused and disturbed. The night was eating away at her—now she was even hallucinating. There was no other explanation.

An hour later, she took a break and lifted the last contents of the white paper cup to her lips. Then she noticed something out of the corner of her eye. She placed the cup back on the table and stared at it. Her name was neatly written in cursive, perfectly complimented by a bold underline. She was going insane. She had never told the barista her name, nor had she asked. She grabbed the cup, lifted it into the air gingerly with her right hand, and held it right in front of her face. There was no doubt. It was her name.

“Um, excuse me, but did you write this?” Chaerin pointed at the name written on the cup.

The female gave a light laugh and shook her head. “I’m afraid not. You were the only customer for the past two hours, so I figured there was no need.”