There was a door in Lin Alley that wasn’t there every day. Finn had seen it three times in his life—first when he was eight and running from his father’s belt, again at sixteen when his first love left him, and now, at twenty-four, with blood on his hands and a debt he couldn’t pay. It was a plain door, weathered oak with a tarnished brass knob, wedged between soot-stained bricks where no door should be. It looked as though it belonged to another building entirely—one older than the alley itself.
The first time he saw it, he’d skidded to a stop on rain-slick cobbles, heart hammering in his ribs. His father’s footsteps had pounded behind him, but when Finn blinked, the door was gone, replaced by a wall damp with moss. The second time, he’d been leaning against the alley wall, hands buried in his jacket pockets, watching his ex disappear into a taxi. The door had stood a few feet away, crooked and patient, as if waiting for him to notice. He hadn’t touched it then either.
But tonight, tonight the taste of copper was thick in his mouth, and the skin of his knuckles split in jagged crescents. His coat sleeve was stiff where blood had dried. The rain had started again, cold needles pricking his face, and somewhere beyond the maze of streets, sirens were already searching. This time, he didn’t hesitate.
Finn crossed the puddle-streaked alley and gripped the brass knob. It was warm, almost fever-hot against his palm. The moment he turned it, the air behind him shifted—quieter somehow, the rain muffled as though swallowed. He stepped through.
The café was dim, its light drawn from low-hanging lamps and the dull glow of wall sconces. Steam curled from porcelain cups, thick enough to seem alive, winding toward the dark wood ceiling beams. The smell was rich but strange—a blend of coffee, burnt sugar, and something faintly metallic.
A woman with silver-streaked hair sat at a corner table, the sleeves of her black dress rolled to the elbows. She was stirring something in her cup with a slow, deliberate rhythm. When she looked up, her smile was small and knowing.
“Took you long enough,”
She said. Finn’s throat felt tight.
“You… know me?”
She gestured to the empty chair opposite her.
“Sit. Before the rain catches up.”
He slid into the seat, his fingers curling around the edge of the table. She slid a cup toward him. Its contents were dark, but the steam that rose from it was pale and sweet-scented—bitter almonds layered with burnt sugar.
“What is this place?”
Finn asked, voice unsteady.
“The In-Between,”
She said.
“For those who aren’t ready to stay, or brave enough to go back.”
Her gaze dipped to his hands. Finn followed her eyes and saw the split skin, the streaks of dried blood that no amount of rain could quite wash away.
“You could leave that behind,”
She said.
Walk through the back door, and none of it ever happened.”
He thought of the man he’d stabbed. How the knife had gone in too easily, how the man’s eyes had gone wide, not with anger but with disbelief. He thought of the shouting, the scrambling footsteps, the weight of it all crushing him before he’d even run.
“What’s the price?”
He asked. The woman’s smile deepened.
“Oh, sweet boy. You’ve already paid.”
A shiver ran down his spine. Somewhere deeper in the café, a tall man in a three-piece suit was seated alone, staring into a glass of something amber. A girl of no more than twelve sat at the counter, legs swinging, sipping from a mug far too big for her hands. No one spoke. No one seemed to notice him. Finn’s eyes went to the windows. They were clouded, the glass warped so that the outside was a blur—shapes moving but indistinct, like shadows under deep water.
“What happens if I don’t go through the back door?”
He asked.
“You stay,”
She said.
“The coffee never runs out. The chairs never grow uncomfortable. Time has no teeth here.”
“And if I leave through the door I came in?”
Her expression darkened, just a touch.
“You can’t. Not until you choose.”
Finn looked down at the cup in front of him. The surface shifted slightly, as though something beneath it moved. For a moment, he thought he saw a reflection—not his own face, but the narrow hallway outside his apartment, the peeling wallpaper, the dent in the wall from the last fight.
“I don’t understand,”
He said. The woman leaned forward.
“This place finds people when they’re at the edge. You were there when you were eight, when you were sixteen, and now. You didn’t open the door the first two times. You did tonight. That tells me something’s changed.”
Finn let out a breath.
“Maybe I’m just tired of running.”
Her smile was almost kind.
“Most people are.”
The sirens outside grew louder for a moment, then faded again, their sound stretched and distorted. The other patrons didn’t react. The man in the suit raised his glass slowly, as if in a toast to no one in particular. The girl at the counter blew across her mug, sending ripples through whatever dark liquid it held. Finn’s stomach twisted.
“If I go through the back door, where does it put me?”
“Anywhere but where you came from,”
She said.
“A life without the moment that broke you.”
“And if I want to change it?”
“You can’t change what happened,”
She said softly.
“Only whether it happened to you.”
He thought of the debt collectors, the way their eyes had been flat, professional, almost bored when they’d cornered him. He thought of how the fight had spiraled—fast, ugly, and impossible to stop. He thought of the man on the ground, the way his own hands had trembled.
“Does anyone ever go back?”
He asked.
“Some,”
She said.
“Not many. Most who do regret it. But a few…”
She shrugged.
“A few carry the weight better than they carry the silence.”
Finn stared into the cup. The scent of almonds grew stronger. Somewhere beneath it, he could smell rain on pavement. He lifted the cup. The warmth of it bled into his fingers, into his bones.
“You said I’ve already paid,”
He murmured. The woman nodded once.
“You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
Finn hesitated. He could almost hear the rain outside, but it was muted, distant. Somewhere, the back door waited. When the sirens wailed past Lin Alley an hour later, they found nothing. Just wet pavement, the iron tang of rain—and a door that hadn’t been there before.
