The Emerald Feast

In the heart of the city, where the hum of traffic and wail of sirens merged into a constant drone, Sofie scrolled through her social media feed, barely noticing the world around her as she waited for her rideshare. A quick glance up to check for her driver made her pause. Across the street, something she hadn’t noticed before—a restaurant, its windows glowing with candlelight, tables draped in shimmering emerald-green tablecloths. Above the door, an ornate sign read: The Emerald Feast.

"Is it new?" she wondered.

Before she could search Google, an inexplicable pull urged her forward. She had only meant to peek inside, but her feet carried her across the street, up the steps, and through the door before she could stop herself.

The moment she stepped inside, a strange dissonance filled the air. The restaurant was empty—no patrons, no staff—yet it buzzed with the indistinct clinking of dishes and the murmur of voices. Sofie hesitated, embarrassment creeping in. Any second now, a hostess would appear, take one look at her hoodie and jeans, and politely show her the way out.

She turned to leave but stopped cold. The door was gone, replaced by a table set for two. And there, on a delicate white place card, her name was written in elegant cursive. She was no longer in jeans and a hoodie, but somehow, she was transformed into a long chic black dress.

Her pulse quickened. She reached for her phone, but she didn’t have pockets or a purse. A creeping unease wrapped around her, yet something about the table—about the entire space—felt oddly familiar. Drawn by curiosity, she slid into the seat marked for her, running her fingers over the cool gold charger plate, the smooth crystal wine glass. A scent drifted from the unseen kitchen—something recognizable, just out of reach.

She looked up, startled to find she was no longer alone. Across from her sat a dark-haired stranger, mid-sentence as if she had interrupted him. He paused, studying her. "Is something wrong with the wine?"

Wine? She glanced down. The once-empty glass was filled with deep burgundy liquid. Lifting it, she inhaled its notes of fruit and earthiness before taking a tentative sip. "No," she murmured. "The wine is perfect."

A strange calm settled over her. Though she couldn't place him, she had an intimate feeling about this stranger, as if they had shared countless meals before. He resumed his story, but though his lips moved, his words were swallowed by the ambient hum of the room. He didn’t seem to notice she couldn’t hear him.

As if a switch was flipped, she remembered she had only intended to look in the window of this restaurant she hadn’t noticed before. She was supposed to be somewhere—her rideshare! Her phone! Panic flared. "I need to leave," she blurted, pushing back her chair.

The noise vanished. Silence crushed the space around her. Though the room was still empty, she felt unseen eyes watching and judging her every move. As she began to panic, a warm hand slipped into hers, grounding her.

"It’s okay," the stranger said softly.

The tension in her chest loosened. The murmurs returned, the music swelled, and the world breathed again.

He stood, still holding her hand. "May I have this dance?"

Without thinking, she nodded.

They moved effortlessly through the dining room, weaving between empty tables as if floating. His touch was steady, his presence unwavering. As they twirled, he leaned in. "We can get out."

Her breath caught. "Get out?"

He nodded. "I’ve been coming to this restaurant for a long time. The first time, I panicked—just like you. But no matter how I left, I always ended up back here. Until I learned to play along." He spun her once, then whispered, "Then, they showed me the way out."

Their dance slowed as he discreetly pointed to various places in the room. "Possible exits," he murmured.

They drifted between conversation and playful imagination, conjuring stories of unseen guests. "Over there, with the pearls and the purple faux fur, is Ms. Peacock," Sofie said in an exaggerated ritzy voice. They laughed, spinning, weaving between tables, their bond growing as if it had always existed.

Finally, he led her back to the table and pulled out her chair. She sat, catching her reflection in her wine glass.

A chill ran through her.

She didn’t belong here. Her life—her real life—was waiting. "Are you ready?" he asked.

"Am I ready?" she echoed, unsure.

He mouthed the words again: "To escape."

Torn between the magic of the moment and the need to reclaim her reality, she closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and nodded.

When she opened them, she was outside.

The warm glow of The Emerald Feast was gone. In its place stood a mural, painted in rich colors, depicting an opulent dining room—tables draped in emerald-green, a chair slightly pulled out. As she looked closer, she caught a reflection in a glass—her reflection. Her breath hitched, and a strange tightness gripped her chest.

Had she imagined it all?

Reaching for her phone, she opened the camera to capture the mural. But the image on the wall had changed—dull, fragmented, its vibrancy now seemingly lost to time.

She took a step forward, studying every detail of the mural, but as she reached out, the paint was older, more worn. The once-vivid colors she saw minutes ago had faded, cracks running through the image as if it had been there for years. She blinked, her mind racing.

Her phone buzzed. Her rideshare had arrived.

Turning away, she noticed a stranger standing a few feet away, examining the mural as she had, his expression mirroring her earlier curiosity. He turned towards her, their eyes met, a familiar feeling washed over her, the same pull that had drawn her across the street—but then, as he turned to leave, it slipped away like a fading dream.

"Are you coming or no?" her driver called.

Shaking herself, she opened the car door, gave her address, and buried herself in her phone.

The Emerald Feast faded into memory.