Chapter Text
There are things Dr Trafalgar Law, medical examiner and pathologist at Hiriluk Memorial Hospital, still isn't used to. Things he never wants to get used to. That in his professional opinion, no one ever should.
Performing an autopsy on a dead child is one of them.
There's no foul play. No one to blame. Just a life that ended too soon.
And sometimes, like today, faced with the mortality of another, with the limitations of modern medicine (in spite of all its accomplishments) he needs to decompress. Get out. Inhale air that isn't heavy with the scent of disinfectant and iron. Reaffirm that this is still what he wants. Remind himself that it matters. That warmth still exists.
So after the autopsy is done, the workspace cleaned, and the recording snail fed, he grabs his coat and signs out of the morgue – exiting through the rear corridor that opens onto a side street behind Hiriluk Memorial. The quickest route to the shops on Poplar Avenue. He’s sent his newest help home: not, because he’s unwilling to work with him through the emotional turmoil – which honestly also isn’t Law’s forte - but because, thankfully, he asked to take the rest of the day off. Law fully understands that everyone has their own way of processing these things. What works for him might not work for others.
There's a park nearby the hospital. If it were a sunny day, he might go for a walk. Let the light-dappled path unwind under his feet. Let wind-scattered leaves pull apart his thoughts. Track squirrels on the grass, birds in the sky.
But autumn has already come and is prepared to leave, the bite of winter's coldness sneaking into every early morning run and every late night walk. Trees that have shed their leaves like unnecessary weights reach up, twiggy and bare, toward grey skies.
The change of scenery would help. But he craves warmth. He doesn’t need nature today. He needs ritual. Comfort. Coffee.
Sure, Hiriluk Memorial has a cafeteria, tucked away in the east wing, just off the main lobby. And it does, among other things, serve coffee. Or, as Yusabib Altaghyir, his newest mentee, likes to put it: "The tears of coffee beans, crying out to the gods, lamenting their tragic fate."
And so, to avoid partaking in the tragedy that is cafeteria coffee, his feet naturally take him in the other direction - away from the park, through the south-east exit and onto Poplar Avenue. Toward Elm & Stone.
It sits nestled between a used bookshop and a flower shop. Easily missed unless you know it’s there, like the hospital staff and locals do. Most visitors to Hiriluk Memorial’s main entrance are drawn toward the more obvious attractions: the park, the parking lot (yes, really), or places like Moo & Munch, for those who want their fried pickles with a side of cardiac arrest. For quieter crowds, there’s Sabi, near the lot. Past that, across from the apothecary, lies a coffee oasis.
Elm & Stone, as far as Law can tell, has been fueling the hospital’s decaffeinated connoisseurs for nearly a decade. Their coffee? Excellent and affordable – unlike The All-Brew on 22nd, recently rebranded and now charging extortion prices for espresso and the complimentary glass of water. Where All-Brew boasts 32 bean options, Elm & Stone has three – each one exceptional.
At Elm & Stone, they roast their coffee on site. It's always a bit of a spectacle for first-timers, but for Law, it's become somewhat meditative - especially when the beans hit what the roasters call "First Crack" – the point where they expand, losing moisture and becoming more porous. In Law’s favourite corner, half drowned out by the perpetual mix of classic jazz and lo-fi beats, it sounds a little like raindrops on a roof.
Law pushes open the door to Elm & Stone, and with that small gesture, he can feel himself breathe easier. Some part of the weight he’s accumulated throughout the day begins to loosen.
The shop isn’t large, but it feels real – authentic in a way the flashy chains with their gimmicky menus never manage. Cool stone tiles ground him with every step. The copper coffee roaster gleams, the forest green wall soothes, and the wooden panelling reflects soft light back into the space – everything here exists in gentle contrast to the fluorescent sterility of the hospital.
The warmth and familiarity of the shop is reinforced by the small and tight-knit staff, each of whom Law knows by name – and who in turn know his name, title and preferred order. It hasn’t taken the baristas long to casually start referring to him as “Dr Law”, and he’s found an unexpected comfort (and joy) in being recognised and not having to state his preferences over and over again.
Working behind the counter is a staff of three: there’s Mandheling, who prefers working the morning shifts despite not being a morning person but, by his own admission, a ‘get home early from work’-person, and Juno, who usually closes the shop in the evenings. The newest hire at the shop is Carrot, a young rabbit mink woman and student of art and design. She recently moved to the capital and replaces Rui, a Pomfret Fishman who’d gone back home to Fish Man Island when he got his degree in civil engineering.
The shop’s two owners respectfully refer to him as ‘Doctor’ - Mr Ahne Karel, who can’t be bothered to learn client’s names - or ‘Doctor Trafalgar’ - Mr Rahul Karel, who is just as interested in talking about Law’s work as he is in sharing the finer points of coffee roasting.
They’re unlikely characters in an equally unlikely partnership.
Law has heard Mr Rahul, more than once, reminisce fondly about the times he and his namesake became friends and the idea of having their own coffee shop taking root, whenever he’s taken over the coffee roasting or helped out behind the coffee counter when the shop was busy.
He’s never seen Mr Ahne similarly engaged, though. Nor has he ever heard him reminisce fondly of the past.
Passing the empty bay window seating – usually filled during rush hour – Law moves into the mellow hush of the main room. The bar counter – sturdy elm polished by many hands - anchors the left wall. The roasting setup is visible just beyond it. The chalkboard menus hanging over the counter are scrawled with daily rotations in neat handwriting (Red Hill Roast and Rainwake Blend, he notes – no Grey Peak Reserve today). Even the mugs, displayed in orderly rows by the coffee counter – green-glazed and slightly irregular – feel like a deliberate choice; like someone made a conscious decision to favour comfort over uniformity.
His favourite corner, by the back-right window, is unoccupied. It features a set of two lounge chairs, covered in buttery-soft brown leather, far more cosy than the linen upholstery of the shop’s other seating opportunities. They seem to be perpetually waiting for someone to make good use of them and their time, offering a pleasant spot for people watching or just daydreaming. For a moment, Law deeply regrets that his workday is not yet complete, merely on hold, and that he didn’t bring his copy of “Spirits of the Scalpel”.
Currently behind the counter, Law spots Juno and Carrot reviewing closing procedures: one reciting with practised rhythm, the other nodding along. As so often these days, Carrot seems nervous and tense. It’s not the first time Law has taken notice, considering how starkly her demeanour contrasts with his initial impressions of her.
When she’d first started out, Carrot had been all bright eyes and full of eager energy. Happy to learn new things and get to know people. A very outgoing character – he’d suffered through her exaggerated happiness quietly, mostly because he couldn’t relate to why a single bellflower blooming by a side walk was a reason to celebrate. (Or mourn, when it inevitably had been plucked by someone.)
Lately, though, that has shifted: her enthusiasm has dulled. Often she seems jumpy and insecure in a way she hadn’t been when she started out. As if she’s expecting to be scolded for something as ridiculous as breathing the wrong way. Law blames Mister Ahne - the less likeable half of the owning duo – and his toxic temper.
As he steps up to the counter, both baristas turn towards him.
"Hi Dr Law," Carrot greets awkwardly. Her voice unnaturally bright with fake cheer, bordering on shrill. Juno winces.
"Afternoon Carrot. Juno," he greets both of them calmly.
"The usual?" Carrot asks, a little tense. Law knows she still struggles with remembering the orders of the regulars. And taking into account how many of the hospital’s staff drop by – regularly - for coffee, that’s wholly unsurprising. But today, she's in luck.
With a slight smile, he shakes his head. "No. One espresso, please."
Carrot visibly relaxes, her ears perking up just slightly.
"One espresso, coming right up!" she chirps happily, bounding off to fix his order.
"Have a seat. We'll bring it over in a moment," Juno says. And then adds with a wink: “We’re getting a restock of Grey Peak Reserve tomorrow.”
Law’s expression turns delighted. He pays and leaves some money in the tip jar. "Thanks, Juno," he answers and makes his way over to his favourite spot. As he nears the corner setup, however, he spots something on the side table, seated between both chairs.
It’s a business card: vertical stripes of bright pink and crisp white alternating, bringing to mind the image of a candy cane. 'Charlotte Incorporated' is printed on it in bold, gold lettering. And underneath that, in neat black serifs, 'Charlotte Smoothie - Corporate'.
Law frowns at the card, its flashy colouring out of place in Elm & Stone's earthy, wooden atmosphere. But before he can say something or examine it more closely, the card is snatched up by a pale hand.
Law glances up briefly, confirming it is, yes, Ahne Karel – always smiling, always polished. Offering him a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. On paper, trustworthy. In practice, a man whose eyes never quite match his silky words. Civil, but never warm. A control freak wrapped in polite remarks and cookie-cutter suits.
"I was looking for that," he says by way of explanation. Law nods, shrugs off his coat, and settles into the chair.
A soft clink announces Carrot, a small tray balanced on her left hand. "One espresso," she proclaims nervously, placing the tiny sage green cup and a glass of water in front of Law.
But before he can thank her, Ahne says – in a tone clearly reserved for politely pointing out that one has just provided irrefutable evidence of their own incompetence: "I suppose some people are fine with that little crema. But let’s try that again. And with a cookie this time, if you don’t mind."
Carrot opens her mouth, then closes it again. Her ears fall flat against her head, the trembling tray defensively clutched against her chest.
"What? Speak up, mink."
"No gluten for Dr Law!" she squeaks out fearfully.
"Good catch on the allergy, Carrot - I forgot to mention it," Law says, smiling at her. "And the crema? Just the way I like it. Thanks."
He's seen this before. Different places, different faces. Always the same smug, superior tone. Law has no patience for men like Ahne Karel. He barely even tolerates them.
"You're welcome, Dr Law," Carrot rushes out and then hurries off to the safety of the bar counter. She immediately picks up a rag and begins to wipe it down, although even from this distance, Law can tell that it’s spotless.
He picks up his cup and takes a cautious sip of the creamy, dark brew. Its velvety smoothness carries hints of sweetness, well-balanced with a pleasant acidity and a subtle bitterness that doesn't overwhelm his taste buds.
"I'd much appreciate it if you didn't undermine my authority in front of my staff, Doctor," Ahne finally says, his cool politeness served with just enough of an edge to communicate his displeasure.
Law allows himself one more moment of enjoying the full flavour profile of his first sip, before he swallows and looks at Ahne.
"And I'd appreciate it if you didn't trash my order when you weren't even there when I placed it," Law replies, equally cool and polite. Underlining his dismissal of the other man with a pointedly indifferent quirk of the eyebrows.
Ahne snarls and then stalks off, vanishing behind a door just past the roasting station, it’s brass plaque declaring “Staff Only”. Out of the corner of his eyes, Law can see a nervous Carrot watching them. He salutes her with his cup and takes another sip, simply enjoying his brew.
The doorbell chimes softly, and out of habit, Law turns to look. The woman who enters is strikingly tall. Tall enough that Law needs a moment to adjust - until he registers the proportions. Long-Leg-Tribe. And a particularly tall representative of the tribe, too. He notices how she stoops to enter, her disproportionately long legs folding gracefully under her. She appears bored and disinterested, perhaps just a little put out by having to be here at all. A bright blue gaze sweeps over the coffee shop – not in curiosity, but in calculation. Measuring space, layout, potential profit margins. The quiet lo-fi music, the earthy atmosphere, the irregular mugs – none of it seems to impress her.
Her long, silver-blonde hair contrasts against lightly tanned skin and the bright pink of her tailored business suit. Styled for impact – in a room that clearly doesn’t warrant it. And also has no interest in being impacted upon.
She mutters something under her breath – possibly a note, possibly a complaint - and doesn't quite straighten to her full height. Then she looks – really looks – at the shop, the bar crew and finally at him, the currently sole customer. Her mouth tightens. The woman sighs, as if this visit has already proven itself to be a waste of her time. But before she can turn to the staff, Ahne reappears, suddenly all smiles and charm.
"Ah, Miss Charlotte! Thank you so much for coming by. Please, follow me to the office. This way," he says, guiding her towards the staff door past the roasting station. Before the door falls shut, he pokes his head out and smoothly demands: "Juno, could you prepare a tray of our best selection for our guest? And … perhaps you’ll handle it yourself this time. Just to be sure it’s up to our standards." The smile never slips, but Law hears the ice behind it. So does Carrot. Her ears wilt instantly.
Then Ahne is gone, his excessive attempts at charm fading into the background.
Law rolls his eyes. Carrot's turn watery, just a little. Juno sighs.
"Don't take Ahne to heart. He's a jerk to everyone," the barista consoles her trainee.
"But he seems to really hate me," Carrot whispers sadly.
"Not exactly shocked that he's a racist jerk," Juno mutters, setting cups on a tray. "Just wish Mr Rahul would get on with it and buy him out."
Shooting an encouraging smile over her shoulder, Juno vanishes through the "Staff Only" door leading to the office. Carrot nervously plays with her cleaning rag, as if unsure whether she should keep cleaning or find something else to do.
The doorbell chimes again. "Guess who!!" a cheerful voice calls loudly.
Law doesn't need to open his eyes to know who that is. Usopp's timing is uncanny - always showing up when Law can least stomach his exuberance.
"Hey Usopp," Carrot greets softly. "The usual?"
"Yep!"
"Uh... the usual usual or your Wednesday usual?" Carrot carefully asks.
Usopp suavely leans in, as if he is about to whisper a secret to the espresso machine. "Wednesday usual, but add a swirl of whipped cream. For artistic accuracy. Hold the cherries." His face splits into a big grin, raising his hand and wiggling it about as if he were holding some cherries.
Carrot giggles - the sound still a little shaky, but genuine. "Alright, one Beanstorm special, artistically accurate whipped cream, no cherries," she repeats as she rings up his order.
They chat softly as she prepares the drink for him. Juno returns and joins their conversation. Then Usopp swaggers off to one of the larger tables instead of his usual window seat and pulls out his sketch pad.
After a while, Law stretches in his seat and reaches for his coat. Carrot is already there, clearing his table for him.
"Thanks, Carrot," he murmurs, and she nods. He offers Juno, who is pulling on her jacket and preparing to leave, a curt greeting and casually strolls out of the shop, heading back towards the hospital. Feeling calmer and more grounded.
And maybe, just maybe, a little bit excited about tomorrow and having a shot of Grey Peak Reserve before work.
‘Yes,’ he thinks. ‘I still want to be doing this.’
About 15 minutes after Law has left, the doorbell chimes again. The warm scent of recently brewed coffee lingers, but now the fresh sharpness of citrusy cleaning spray drifts over from the counter area. Juno's just left, leaving Carrot to handle the shop on her own. A half-done chalkboard sign reads "Almost Closed - But not yet". A beautifully painted croissant with a sad face is depicted underneath a bright pink heart, saying "Give our pastries a home! Adopt a croissant today! 500 Belli each".
Nami steps into the Elm & Stone and stops just in the doorway. She isn’t sure what she expected – Usopp had talked up the shop with a passion that made her wonder if he was going to found a new, coffee based religion. She genuinely wouldn’t put it past him. But then, that may have been just a bit he did for her. One that fell in line with his persistent declaration that “caffeinated demons” had to be exorcised from her “foolish mortal palette”. Whatever that meant. Either way, she’d bumped the shop up on her list and agreed to meet there, if only for the pleasure of seeing a friend.
The shop isn’t flashy, which is something she would have expected from Usopp, and it isn’t overly gimmicky, either. It is quiet and sophisticated. Stylish and self-assured, but also welcoming and warm. The stone tile floor under her heels is cool and clean, but not cold. It’s a visual anchor. The wood panelling along the walls adds texture and a surface, that reflects the warm lights onto a deep forest green wall. A low wood counter – Nami wouldn’t be surprised if it was the titular elm – stretches across the back like a quiet invitation. It’s simple and solid, the kind of place built with a personal intention, not a general trend in mind.
Handwritten chalkboard menus list drinks and prices in a flowing white script, the occasional small doodle of a laughing cup or awe-struck pastry indicating a sense of playfulness. A few stone planters hang in the windows or are decoratively placed on tables, trailing soft vines over their edges.
She takes in the minimalist atmosphere of the shop, the soft music playing in the background, notes the leather lounge chairs looking comfortable, as if someone had just gotten up and left them, and the clean wooden tables. Allows herself to absorb all of that and let it sink in.
No, this isn’t a cute coffee shop by any sense of the word, she decides, but there's a calm sophistication, a sort of understated serenity to the place that puts her at ease.
It absolutely is not the sort of coffee shop she would have expected still existed this close to the city centre – especially now with Mini-Charlotte’s beginning to pop up all over the place. What had begun as a single, sugar-pink monstrosity on 22nd Street was quickly becoming a brand empire, gobbling up independent cafés that lacked either trendiness or traction. A nightmare in a bright pink palette with overly embellished, ruffle-dominated, bow-tied decorations. As if a fairy tale had had too much sugar and vomited it all over the city.
Elm & Stone by contrast is comfortable. Understated. Lived in. Having seen it, Nami understands the appeal.
But something feels off. Behind the counter, a young rabbit mink smiles – but its brittle. Her ears twitch, perhaps a nervous tell, and her shoulders are pulled up just a little too high to be comfortable. Nami’s eyes narrow for a moment.
Even as she works, the mink is exceptionally quiet. It was the kind of quiet that didn’t just happen to settle – it was being carefully maintained. Managed. Like a shield.
"Oi, Nami! 'Bout time you got here," Usopp greets and gets out of his seat to meet her halfway and give her a friendly hug.
"Sorry, I got turned around. I didn't even know there were shops on this side of the hospital," Nami admits, looking around eagerly.
Cautious and tense, that’s how the young rabbit mink behind the counter appears to her. Her ears twitch again. Definitely nervous.
"Right," Usopp says, puts an arm around her shoulder and leads Nami over to the counter. "Carrot, this is Nami. Nami, this is Carrot. She's an aspiring High Priestess of the Bean, and probably one of the few people capable of saving your soul - and your taste buds," he introduces with much gravitas
Nami rolls her eyes. "I only said--" Nami begins, but Usopp silences her.
"SHHHT!" He interrupts, one finger dramatically pressed to her lips. "Speak not, for the foul lies of that Den of Darkness cling to your tongue! And I shall not allow such blasphemy near this hallowed counter."
Nami shoots Carrot a look. The mink is torn between worry and bemusement at Usopp's antics.
"Oh, aspiring High Priestess Carrot, Guardian of the Bean, Chosen of the Roast, Illuminated of the Brew. Before you, I have brought a lost soul. A soul that was lured by false promises--"
"Usopp, seriously," Nami begins, but Usopp just speaks loudly over her
"--Of the thirty-two-flavoured Den of Lies, the Den of Darkness, the Den of Rot! Caught in the nefarious and cursed net of the Coffee Pot that Steals... we must save her! Her soul! Her taste buds! Her wallet! And her dignity, too!"
He places a hand on Nami's head, as if trying to bend it in humility, which fails on account of the exasperated glare she is shooting him.
"It was one cup and--"
"BZZZZT! No excuses! That's what they all say before the cinnamon syrup steals their soul," he intones dramatically.
Carrot's ears twitch again - this time not in anxiety, but restrained amusement.
"Very well... Disciple Usopp. You-teia did well. But I must speak to the lost soul herself," she begins and then trails off, wondering how to continue spinning Usopp's narrative thread. The little verbal tick, the addition of ‘teia’ instantly registers with Nami. ‘She hasn’t been living here long, then’ she thinks, fully aware that minks who have spent a long time living with humans eventually unlearn some of their more unique verbal and behavioural quirks.
"Of course, you must! How could I be so foolish, High Priestess! You must ascertain the damage before the evil can be exorcised! So then bestow upon us the holy words, oh priestess!" he begs, sinking dramatically to one knee, hitting his elbow on the counter as he does so. "Ouch, dang it," he mutters.
Carrot leans forward to peek at him over the counter. "Are you-teia alright?" she asks with genuine worry.
"Yes, I'm fine. I still need you to save Nami's soul, though," he says, briefly breaking character. Both Nami and Carrot giggle.
"Alright," Carrot says and then turns to Nami, offering a bright smile: "Hi and welcome to Elm & Stone. I'm Carrot! What can I get you-teia today?"
"Uh... whatever washes away sins and soul-absorbing cinnamon syrup, I guess? Although I didn't even have the syrup," Nami replies.
Usopp gasps in shock. "You bought 'Black Gold' and you didn't even invest in the cinnamon shot? You tarnished your soul for nothing! NOTHING!" he exclaims.
Carrot giggles. "How about a Red Hill Roast?" she asks. "It's not special like the Sky beans in Black Gold. But we roast it every morning. Mister Rahul says it's an honest bean. It's not trying to dazzle you. It's just there for you and keeps you warm."
"Oh, that actually sounds really good," Nami says, rubbing her hands together.
A few minutes later, Nami is curling around a rounded ceramic mug with a slightly crackled moss green glaze, her hands cupped around it for warmth.
"Did I promise too much?" Usopp asks.
"No," Nami admits. "This is excellent coffee."
"Better than...?"
"If I'd known this was here, I never would've gone to 22nd," Nami confirms.
"Praise be to Saint Red Hill! Your palette has been cleansed, your soul enlightened and freed of the Taint of Evil!" he exclaims exuberantly. Carrot behind the counter nods at them benignly, then giggles happily.
"How did you even find this place? This isn't your usual spot, is it?" Nami questions. The place is so unlike Usopp, it’s hard to imagine him finding it and deciding to make it his new favourite haunt.
But Usopp shrugs light-heartedly. "Kaya's residency is in Hiriluk, just down the street. Apparently, most of their staff go here for good coffee because the cafeteria is... just sad. So sad," he offers.
Nami grins a little. "I've heard that, too. It's been described as "World's weakest coffee" to me," she says. Usopp grins.
“This place is really good, tho. And it’s the only way to have some ‘us’ time with Kaya when she’s working,” he finally confides. Then quickly adds: “Don’t tell the guys.”
“That you go out of your way to spend time with your romantic partner and make sure they’re alright? Psssh. Your secret’s safe with me.” Nami promises. "Anyway, I brought the outline for the job. Want to take a look at it?"
"I mean, if you don't want to do it yourself," Usopp says offhandedly, accepting the envelope Nami pushes towards him and going through the documentation inside.
"Am I hearing that right? Are you saying 'no' to a paid gig?" Nami teases.
"No, I mean... It's for charity, right? Doesn't feel right charging for it," he says guiltily.
"Then charge a discount, if you must. They allotted a generous budget. I fully expect you to make use of that," Nami says with a grin.
They're maybe 20 minutes into discussing the graphic design project when the doorbell chimes and the shop's door clatters shut behind a furious man stalking into the coffee shop. He is dark haired and broad-shouldered. About as wide as he is high. The laugh lines on his face are pulled down into an expression of white-hot rage.
"Oh, hi Mister Rahul!" Carrot greets, relief brightening her voice – as if he’s usually a reassuring sight. Her ears flatten against her head as the so-addressed barely reacts to her and instead makes straight through the staff room door. It slams shut with all the delicacy of a stampeding bull.
Carrot blinks. Then exchanges a questioning look with Usopp. He mutely shakes his head. Shrugs his shoulders. Scratches the tip of his nose. This isn’t like Rahul. But then a furious shout makes Carrot flinch. She nearly drops a mug.
"KAREL! HOW DARE YOU!" Rahul's voice cracks through the walls.
Nami's brow rises. Usopp eyes his empty mug. "... You think now's a bad time to ask for another Beanstorm?"
“Who was that?” Nami asks, voice barely above a whisper.
“That was Rahul Karel, he’s one of the two owners. He’s the nice guy,” he explains.
Nami disbelievingly mouths the words ‘nice guy’ back at him. Usopp nods, then says: “The other guy is Ahne Karel. I don’t like him.”
“They both have the first name Karel?” Nami asks. Usopp shrugs.
“Apparently, they were best friends in school. Built the shop up together. But lately there seems to be some… some tension,” he finishes.
There's incoherent screaming for the next minutes that has Usopp and Nami at their table, and Carrot behind the counter, awkwardly pretending they’re not trying to make out actual words. After 5 minutes, a woman, clearly a member of the Long-Leg-Tribe, dressed in an expensive pink designer suit re-enters the shop through the staff door. She eyes Nami and Usopp distastefully, then turns to Carrot with a calm, almost blasé expression.
"Tell Mister Ahne to call me - whenever he and his partner are done squabbling like children," she coolly instructs and leaves.
The indistinct screaming continues. Then a crash. The staff door bursts open again. It’s been 15 minutes since Rahul has entered the shop.
"YOU'RE GONNA HAVE TO KILL ME TO STOP ME!" Ahne Karel’s yell can be heard through the open door.
Carrot gasps.
"I JUST MIGHT, YOU ASSHOLE!" Rahul bellows back.
Then he storms off.
Several hours later…
A blanket of fog is spread over Poplar Avenue. Dried up leaves, tipped with white frost, crunch underfoot as Mandheling drags his feet to his workplace. He loves working at the Elm & Stone. Just not the opening shift that starts at 4 in the morning. Or, as far as he is concerned, in the dead of night. Or rather: he doesn’t love getting up for it. He is perfectly happy to get off work around midday every day.
But the shop needs to be open and running by 5:30, because – as Mandheling has come to understand – the cafeteria of the nearby hospital doesn’t open until 9.
In the words of Rahul Karel, plenty of health workers rely on them for a decent cup of coffee, and they should be happy to serve them.
In the words of Ahne Karel, they have a monopoly on bean juice for three and a half hours, and Mandheling better make the most of it if he wants his pay check.
It’s not just the hour, though. Last night, their new barista, Carrot, had to close up on her own for the first time. He loves Carrot, she’s great. But she’s also terrified of making mistakes. Which is a problem, because Mr Ahne seems to exist solely to find and point out other people’s mistakes. And he was supposed to have been at the shop for the late night shift, too.
Mandheling is already resigned to finding the shop in less-than-ideal conditions for early opening. As he turns the corner at the news-stand, he can see the office lights on - Rahul Karel must be checking inventory already. Or ordering a new bean to experiment with. A common enough occurrence. Mandheling thinks nothing of it and isn’t surprised, when the staff entrance is already unlocked. Something glittery tinkles away into the dark, flicked away by his foot without even meaning to.
Putting away his belongings, he is surprised to find the coffee shop’s main room just the way it’s supposed to be: tables wiped down and napkin holders refilled. Floor swiped and mopped. Menus already written up on the board in chalk, with delightful little doodles in the corners. Coffee mugs stacked, a box of coffee filters - prepped and ready to go. The machines gleaming, diligently cleaned. The sugar shakers refilled and sorted alphabetically.
He even checks the bathrooms and finds them spotless.
There are, he finds, only two things out of place: the dishwasher is still on and full with clean mugs (annoying, but it happens) and the dish towel used for the final wipe-down of the coffee counter is balled up and damp in the kitchen sink. Instead of hung on the drying rack or tossed in the laundry basket, like he’s told Carrot a million times during orientation.
“Second time this week,” he mutters with a shake of his head. “Carrot, Carrot…”
He goes through the motions of setting up shop and once the first brew of Red Hill Roast has completed, he fills two mugs. He trudges up the stairs to the office on the first floor, gently kicking the door with a friendly: “Mornin’ Karel. Trade ya coffee for cash register, you buyin’?”
But then the door swings open smoothly, like it had only been waiting for a gentle nudge to reveal its secrets.
The stale scent of copper and iron invades his nose. A thick rivulet of reddish brown draws his eyes and forces it to follow, all the way to the far wall and around the desk. Toward the open safe.
Mandheling can’t help himself as he slowly steps into the room, a mug of hot coffee clutched in either hand. He walks closer, peeks around the desk and…
The scream drowns out the breaking of porcelain. The scalding liquid on suddenly clammy skin is barely even noticed.
Mandheling runs, stumbles down the stairs and like someone whose seen this scene a million times on different screens, but never expected to find himself in it, sprints through the shop’s front doors. Running towards the light – the bright light of the hospital. Passing through the threshold and screaming: “Help! Someone - he’s dead! He’s DEAD!”