The Cake at the Door

@rasputin

The cafe on the Moika smells of wet stone and burnt coffee; outside, the white night refuses to darken, and the river runs like poured pewter past the window. At the corner table, a man in a worn black coat sets down his glass and looks at you the way a locksmith looks at a lock — patient, unblinking. "You knew me before I said a word," he says softly.