The echo in the Cafe

The rain had been falling for hours, soft and steady, like the world was trying to lull itself to sleep. Maren didn’t mind. She liked the quiet that came with storms—the way people moved slower, spoke softer, and stared longer out windows. It made the world feel like a painting, paused mid-brushstroke.

She ducked into the café on 12th and Alder, the one with the mismatched chairs and the crooked sign that read “Clementine’s.” It had been her favorite once, back when she and June used to come here every Sunday. Back when June was still alive.

Maren hadn’t planned to come. She’d walked past it a dozen times in the last year, each time feeling the tug in her chest, the ache of memory. But today, something had pulled her in. Maybe it was the rain. Maybe it was the dream she’d had last night—June’s voice calling her name from the edge of a forest, her face half-lit by moonlight.

She ordered a black coffee and sat at the corner table, the one with the chipped blue paint and the view of the street. The place hadn’t changed. Same dusty books on the windowsill. Same crooked lamp. Same smell of cinnamon and old wood.

And then she saw her.

Across the room, by the counter, stood a woman with June’s face.

Maren froze. Her breath caught in her throat. The woman was laughing at something the barista said, her head tilted just so, her hand brushing a strand of hair behind her ear—exactly the way June used to. She wore a green coat, the same shade June had loved, and her eyes—God, her eyes—were the same stormy gray.

It couldn’t be. June was gone. She’d died in a car accident two years ago. Maren had seen the body. Had touched her cold hand in the hospital. Had screamed into her pillow for weeks until her voice gave out.

But this woman—this stranger—was June.

Maren stood, her legs trembling, and walked toward her. She didn’t know what she was going to say. She didn’t even know if she could speak. Her heart was pounding so hard she thought it might crack her ribs.

The woman turned, and for a moment, their eyes met.

It wasn’t June. Not exactly. The resemblance was uncanny, but there were differences. Her nose was slightly sharper. Her smile a little more hesitant. But the way she looked at Maren—like she recognized her—made the world tilt.

“Hi,” the woman said. Her voice was soft, familiar. “Do I… know you?”

Maren blinked. “I… I thought you were someone else.”

The woman smiled, a little sadly. “I get that a lot.”

They stood there, awkward and silent, until the barista called out, “Order for Elise!”

The woman—Elise—turned to grab her drink. Maren almost walked away. Almost let it go. But something in her refused.

“Would you… sit with me?” she asked.

Elise hesitated, then nodded. “Sure.”

They sat at Maren’s table, the rain tapping against the window like a metronome. Maren couldn’t stop staring. Every movement Elise made was a ghost of June. It was like watching a memory come to life.

“I’m sorry,” Maren said. “You just… you look exactly like someone I lost.”

Elise nodded. “A sister?”

“A lover.”

Elise’s eyes softened. “I’m sorry.”

“She died two years ago. Car accident. We used to come here all the time.”

Elise looked around. “It’s a beautiful place.”

“It was hers. She found it. Said it felt like a secret.”

They talked for an hour. About books. Music. Rain. Elise was kind, curious, and funny in a quiet way. She didn’t flinch when Maren mentioned grief. Didn’t try to fix it. Just listened.

And then, as Elise reached for her coat, she said, “You know… I had a dream last night. I was standing in a forest. Someone was calling my name. I couldn’t see their face, but I felt like I knew them.”

Maren’s blood turned to ice.

“That’s… I had the same dream.”

They stared at each other. The café seemed to fade around them. The rain grew louder.

Elise swallowed. “Do you believe in… echoes?”

“Echoes?”

“Of people. Of love. Like maybe… when someone dies, they leave pieces behind. And sometimes, those pieces find their way into someone else.”

Maren didn’t know what to say. Her heart was breaking and healing all at once.

“I don’t know who you are,” she whispered. “But you feel like home.”

Elise reached across the table, her fingers brushing Maren’s. “Maybe we’re both haunted.”

Maren smiled, tears slipping down her cheeks. “Maybe haunting isn’t always a bad thing.”

—

They met again the next day. And the next. Always at Clementine’s. Always in the rain.

Elise told stories that felt like déjà vu. She hated olives. Loved thunderstorms. Had a scar on her left wrist from falling off a bike at twelve. June had the same scar. The same hatred of olives. The same love of storms.

Maren started keeping a notebook. She wrote down every similarity. Every eerie overlap. She wasn’t sure what she was trying to prove—reincarnation? Possession? A glitch in reality? But the list kept growing.

One night, Elise invited her to her apartment. It was small, cluttered, and warm. A record player spun something soft and jazzy. Maren wandered to the bookshelf and froze.

There, tucked between two poetry anthologies, was a copy of “The Forest Remembers.” June’s favorite novel. A rare edition. One Maren had given her for their anniversary.

“I found it at a thrift store,” Elise said. “It felt… familiar.”

Maren opened the cover. Her handwriting stared back at her.

To June— For every echo, every storm, every secret we keep. Love, M.

Elise stared. “I don’t understand.”

Maren’s hands shook. “This was hers. This was mine.”

They sat in silence, the record crackling in the background.

“I think I’m going crazy,” Maren whispered.

Elise reached for her hand. “Or maybe you’re waking up.”

—

Weeks passed. The rain never stopped. Maren stopped questioning it.

They started dreaming together. Always the forest. Always the voice. Sometimes they saw glimpses—a swing set, a broken mirror, a girl in a green coat running barefoot through the trees.

One night, Elise woke screaming. Maren held her until she calmed.

“I remembered something,” Elise said. “I was in a car. There was glass. Screaming. And then… silence.”

Maren felt her heart collapse. “That’s how June died.”

Elise looked at her, eyes wide. “I think I was her.”

—

They went back to the hospital. To the morgue. To the crash site. Elise remembered things she shouldn’t. A nurse’s name. The smell of antiseptic. The way Maren had cried.

They found the old café journal June used to keep. Elise flipped through it, her fingers trembling.

“I wrote this,” she said. “I remember writing this.”

Maren didn’t argue. She didn’t need to.

—

On the anniversary of June’s death, they returned to Clementine’s. The rain was heavier than ever. The café was empty.

Elise brought a candle. Maren brought the notebook.

They lit the flame. Read the entries. Held each other.

“I don’t know what we are,” Maren said. “A second chance? A glitch? A ghost?”

Elise smiled. “We’re an echo.”

And for the first time in two years, Maren felt whole.