Unfinished
The bell above the door chimed not the bright ding of ordinary cafés, but a slow, deep toll, like a funeral bell heard through the wind. Eli froze in the doorway. One moment he’d been fleeing the gunshot roar of collapsing skyscrapers, the next—this. A café lit by candlelight, its tables occupied by people who didn’t look up. A man in a dust-stricken pilot’s uniform nursed espresso. A woman in 1920s flapper gear tapped ashes into a saucer. "Ah you’re early" The bartender said while polishing a glass with his apron. Eli’s hands shook. "Where—when—is this?" "Between. For those who almost died, but didn’t. Yet." The bartender slid a steaming cup toward him. Eli recoiled—the liquid inside moved against the tilt of the cup. "The rules," said the bartender. "Drink, and you go back to your apocalypse. Leave it, and you stay here, forever unfinished." Outside, the warped glass showed his city frozen mid-ruin, flames caught like petals in am...