The Last Song

The café was nearly empty by the time Daniel noticed her.
He’d been nursing a lukewarm cup of coffee, pretending to read a paperback while the soft hum of an old record player filled the space. The rain outside turned the city streets into shimmering ribbons of light.

She sat at the farthest booth, tucked into the shadows, her face half-hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat. A single candle flickered in front of her, throwing her pale features into strange relief.

Something about her didn’t fit. The way her hands rested perfectly still on the tabletop, fingers entwined as though she were holding onto an invisible thread. The way she didn’t touch the drink in front of her.

And then, as if sensing his gaze, she looked up.

Her eyes — a deep, endless brown — locked with his, and it felt like the air between them shifted. The background noise dulled, the rain slowed. Daniel blinked, and for a moment, she seemed closer.

He stood before he could think, leaving his book behind. As he crossed the floor, the record changed to a slow, aching ballad, one of those songs that sounded like it had always existed.

“Evening,” he said when he reached her booth.

“Evening,” she replied, her voice a low murmur, as if she were speaking through a dream.

He gestured to the empty seat. “Mind if I—?”

She nodded once.

Daniel slid into the booth and tried for small talk, but she listened more than she spoke. Her words came slowly, like they had to travel a long way before reaching her lips.

Finally, he asked, “Do you come here often?”

A faint smile curved her mouth. “Only when I hear the music.”

Something about the way she said it made him want to ask more, but the rain eased, and the streetlamps outside began to flicker on.

The record clicked and spun into a new track — a haunting waltz. She tilted her head, studying him.

“Dance with me?” she asked softly.

Daniel hesitated. “Here?”

“Here,” she confirmed.

He laughed under his breath, but when she rose from the booth and extended her hand, he took it without thinking. In the empty café, they swayed between the tables, candlelight trembling against the walls. She was lighter than he expected, and somehow colder, as though she had just stepped in from winter air.

They danced through the song in silence. When it ended, she didn’t let go.

“One more,” she said. “Then I have to go home.”

Something in her tone tightened the space in his chest.

“Where’s home?” he asked.

“You’ll see,” she whispered.

They stepped out into the night. The rain had stopped, leaving the streets slick and gleaming. She walked ahead, and he followed, turning corners he’d never taken before, until they reached a wrought-iron gate at the edge of the city.

It was the old cemetery.

Daniel stopped. “This… is your home?”

She turned, smiling faintly. “It’s where I stay. Until the song ends.”

Before he could reply, she slipped through the gate. The air seemed to fold around her, and her outline began to fade.

“Wait—what’s your name?” he called.

She paused just inside the shadows. “Lydia.”

And then she was gone.

Daniel stood there for a long time, the echo of the waltz still in his ears. He thought of her words — only when I hear the music.

That night, back at the café, he noticed the record player had no power cord.