Better Late Than Never

“Better Late Than Never” by Edward J. McCoul 

The rain fell in sheets against the windows of The Last Cup, a forgotten café tucked down a side street in a nearly abandoned part of town. The few remaining shops nearby had faded signage, peeling paint, and an air of resigned abandonment, as if they’d accepted their eventual demise. But The Last Cup was different. No one had seen it open for a hundred years.

Legend had it that The Last Cup was once the heartbeat of the neighborhood, buzzing with writers, artists, and travelers from all walks of life. The café had offered an otherworldly coffee blend that supposedly invigorated the mind and stirred the soul. Locals claimed the recipe was stolen from a mystic far away, a blend of rare ingredients meant to “bridge the senses.”

Tom Peterson, a down-on-his-luck journalist, had heard all the rumors. He’d been sent by his editor on one last wild goose chase to cover the café’s centennial anniversary. But it was late, he was drenched from the rain, and if he had to explain why a rundown café that no one remembered mattered, he’d lose what little sanity he had left.

He pulled open the café’s weathered door with a sigh. It was, after all, the only sign of life on the street.

Inside, he found a cozy but ancient setup—small tables with mismatched chairs, a long counter with a cracked marble top, and a row of worn stools. A single bulb flickered from above, casting a warm but dim glow over the dusty tables. As he entered, he felt a chill ripple through him, like walking into a memory.

“Better late than never,” he muttered to himself, shaking the rain from his coat.

As he glanced around, something peculiar caught his eye: an enormous grandfather clock standing in the corner. Its glass face was covered in dust, and the hands hadn’t moved in years. Tom could almost feel time standing still inside this place.

The silence in the room was thick, broken only by the distant ticking that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. He took a seat, setting his wet notebook on the table in front of him.

And then, it happened.

The grandfather clock flickered to life, its gears grinding together as if shaking off decades of dust and neglect. It began to chime—a deep, resounding bell that echoed throughout the empty café. With each strike, something unseen stirred, and a cold breeze swept through the room, rattling cups and creaking tables.

One by one, figures began to materialize, semi-transparent but distinct in their features. Ghostly patrons emerged at tables, each one frozen in time yet brimming with life. They stretched, adjusted their seats, and glanced around, sharing wide-eyed looks as if awakening from a long slumber.

Tom blinked, unsure if he was hallucinating, but there was no denying it—the café had come alive with an eerie vibrancy.

At the counter, a translucent barista appeared, tall and slender, with a handlebar mustache and a white apron covered in ghostly stains. He polished a mug, glanced up, and grinned, seemingly unperturbed by his own supernatural state.

“Better late than never,” he said, his voice echoing strangely as he poured an invisible coffee into an equally spectral cup. “Been waiting a hundred years for the next round.”

Tom stared, his mind racing. He watched as ghostly patrons around him sighed in relief, eagerly reaching out to clasp steaming cups, their faces lighting up with satisfaction as if this drink were a long-lost elixir.

“Excuse me,” Tom stammered, standing up. “What…what is this?”

The barista chuckled. “A hundred years ago, I closed up shop on a stormy night much like this one. But none of us were ready to leave. The coffee’s spell, you see… it has a way of lingering.” He gestured to the patrons. “Every soul here had unfinished business—thoughts left unspoken, dreams left unrealized. So here we are, back for one last cup. Care to join?”

Tom, realizing that his curiosity had overtaken his fear, took a seat at the counter. “What’s your name?”

“Henry,” the barista said, extending his ghostly hand. Tom tried to shake it but felt only a strange, cold mist. Henry smirked and handed him a mug, filling it with what looked like actual coffee but radiated an unearthly glow. “Drink up. It’s not your usual blend.”

Tentatively, Tom took a sip. The taste was like nothing he’d ever experienced—rich, dark, and oddly bittersweet, with hints of spices that seemed to dance across his tongue. His senses sharpened, and suddenly, everything around him grew more vivid.

The ghostly figures now looked like real people, each dressed in the attire of different eras, from the roaring twenties to the freewheeling sixties. Conversations filled the air—excited, desperate, sorrowful words spoken as if they were urgent confessions.

To his left, a woman with bobbed hair and a flapper dress was weeping. “I never got to say goodbye to him,” she murmured, clutching her cup as if it held her last breath. To his right, an older man in a fedora tapped his fingers on the table, lost in thought. “Should’ve taken that job in San Francisco,” he said with a sigh. “Could’ve changed everything.”

Tom felt a strange pull toward each story. It was as if the coffee itself was unraveling the tales of these souls who had been trapped in the café for a century. Unable to resist, he turned to the barista.

“Why are they still here?” he asked.

Henry’s face softened. “Some things hold us back. Regrets, missed chances, lost loves. This café… it’s become a place where souls gather when they can’t let go. We’re here until they find peace.”

Tom’s eyes widened as the weight of Henry’s words sank in. He realized this wasn’t just a coffee shop—it was a purgatory, a resting place for those caught between life and death. He could feel their longing, each patron tethered to a regret or a desire that had never been fulfilled.

“Are you… are you here by choice, Henry?”

The barista hesitated, his ghostly hand pausing mid-polish. “Once, I thought so. But now…I wonder if perhaps I’m as trapped as the rest.”

Tom’s gaze drifted back to the patrons. The flapper girl was laughing through her tears now, the old man was mumbling to himself, and new figures continued to emerge, each bringing a fresh wave of memories and heartache into the room. It was as though the chimes of the clock had summoned every soul who had ever left something unfinished here.

He turned back to Henry, swallowing hard. “Is there…is there anything I can do?”

Henry’s eyes sparkled with a mixture of hope and resignation. “Perhaps you could tell their stories. Maybe, if others know their regrets, they might find a way to let go.”

A strange feeling stirred in Tom’s chest—a calling. He looked around the room, at all the patrons frozen in their moments of longing and heartache. This was a story he had never imagined telling, a story that went beyond mere words on paper. But he knew that if he could bring their tales to life, they might finally be free.

He set his mug down, pulling his notebook from his pocket. He moved from table to table, listening to each person’s story—the missed trains, the unsent letters, the moments of courage that had faltered too soon. And with each story he recorded, he saw their features soften, their burdens lighten, as though the act of telling was enough to begin loosening the chains that held them.

Hours passed, yet Tom felt energized, driven by a purpose he’d never known before. By the time he reached the last table, dawn was breaking, casting golden rays through the dusty windows.

As he looked around, he saw that the ghosts were fading, each one offering him a final nod of gratitude before disappearing like mist in the morning sun. Henry, the last to remain, gave him a sad but grateful smile.

“Thank you, Tom,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “I think we can finally rest.”

As Tom closed his notebook, dawn’s first light filtered through the dusty windows, casting an ethereal glow across The Last Cup. He looked around, seeing only empty tables where, moments before, there had been spectral patrons sharing their regrets, longing, and confessions. All had disappeared, leaving him alone with his filled notebook and the soft ticking of the grandfather clock.

He stood, feeling an odd weight in his chest—a mix of relief and sadness. He’d listened to their stories, taken them down with care, and he hoped they could finally find peace. He turned back to the counter, where Henry, the ghostly barista, remained. Henry gave him a wistful smile, his translucent form flickering like a candle in the wind.

“Thank you, Tom,” he said, his voice soft and distant. “We can finally rest.”

Tom returned the smile, watching as Henry’s figure shimmered and faded, his presence vanishing into the thin morning air. With a final glance around, Tom headed to the door, feeling as if he’d completed something extraordinary. His hand reached for the handle.

But then, he froze.

The door wouldn’t budge.

Confused, he tried again, pulling harder this time, but the handle remained locked, almost as if it were fused to the frame. A cold realization prickled down his spine. He turned back, his eyes darting across the empty café, now completely silent except for the ticking clock. The grandfather clock began to chime once more, each strike reverberating through him, growing louder, almost deafening.

Then he saw it—a faded reflection in the clock’s glass face. His own reflection. But something was wrong.

His face looked… translucent. Like Henry’s. Like the ghosts he had been talking to only moments ago.

“No… this can’t be,” he whispered, reaching up to touch his face, but his hand passed through his skin, like mist through fog. His pulse raced, but no heartbeat followed; only the chilling silence of a place lost to time.

As he looked down, he realized his notebook, too, had changed. Its pages, once filled with hastily scrawled notes, were now blank, the words he’d so carefully written fading into nothingness. Panic surged within him, but then he felt a strange calm wash over him, a pull toward the nearest table.

Slowly, almost involuntarily, Tom took a seat.

At that moment, a faint bell chimed as the café door opened. A young woman stepped inside, her face weary and her clothes damp from the rain outside. She glanced around, noticing him immediately and giving a polite nod. She pulled out her own notebook, setting it on the table as she approached.

“You wouldn’t happen to know if this place is… open?” she asked, her voice filled with curiosity and uncertainty.

Tom felt an odd sense of familiarity, even as his mouth moved on its own. “Better late than never,” he replied with a smile, his voice now carrying the same haunting echo he’d heard from Henry.

As she sat down, he realized with a shiver of understanding: he was the next chapter, the newest soul trapped in The Last Cup, waiting to tell his story to the next curious stranger who might wander in.