ECHOES IN THE MIND – One-Shot 1: The Coffee Spill
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The rain had started without warning, thin needles tapping against the café windows. From my corner table, I could see the gray wash of the street outside, umbrellas bobbing like restless jellyfish. I had my book open, though I wasn’t reading. Something in the air felt strange—not unsettling exactly, but heavy, like a song I’d heard before but couldn’t place.
The bell above the café door chimed. A woman walked in, shaking her umbrella, droplets scattering onto the checkered floor. She was maybe in her late twenties, wearing a faded yellow raincoat. I didn’t look up long, but I knew—I knew—that she would choose the table near the counter, not the empty ones by the window. And she did.
I blinked at my book.
The barista, a young guy with a mess of dark curls, greeted her. I couldn’t hear what she said, but in my mind, I heard her voice clearly: “Cappuccino, extra foam.”
When she actually ordered it out loud, word for word, the hair on my arms prickled.
I shook it off. Maybe I’d overheard her voice without realizing. That could happen.
The café’s soundtrack was a lazy mix of acoustic covers, the kind of music that blurred into the smell of roasted beans and cinnamon. I took a sip of my own coffee. Warm. Comforting. Normal.
Until the waitress walked toward me.
She was balancing two cups on a small tray. She passed one to the woman in the yellow coat, then made her way toward the couple at the table next to mine. And suddenly, my stomach dropped. I knew what was about to happen.
The image flashed in my head like a memory: the waitress tripping, the tray tilting, coffee spilling across the edge of my table. My book getting a brown, uneven stain. Her voice apologizing in a flustered rush, the sound of her awkward laugh.
I could see it.
“No,” I muttered under my breath, without even knowing why.
She stepped past me, her foot catching on the strap of a bag left on the floor. The tray tilted exactly as I’d pictured. Hot coffee sloshed over the rim and onto my table, droplets splattering my sleeve.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” she said, exactly as I’d heard in my mind. “I’m such a klutz, are you okay?”
She gave the laugh. That awkward, breathy chuckle.
I stared at her, my pulse loud in my ears.
“It’s fine,” I said too quickly. “Really. It’s fine.”
She dabbed at the table with a napkin, cheeks red. “Let me get you another drink.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
But inside, my thoughts were tumbling. This wasn’t just predicting something. This wasn’t a guess. It was… remembering.
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After she left, I sat frozen. The couple next to me resumed their conversation, oblivious. The world kept moving. I glanced at the window again—rain streaks bending the city into watery shapes.
I tried to replay it logically. I must have seen her glance down, noticed the bag on the floor, anticipated the trip. And the laugh? Coincidence.
Still, I couldn’t shake the sense that I’d lived this before.
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It happened again an hour later.
I was packing my things, ready to leave, when a man walked past the window—tall, wearing a blue jacket. As he passed, the image flashed in my head: him turning at the corner, nearly bumping into someone with a white dog. The leash wrapping around his legs. The startled laugh.
Without meaning to, I found myself following him outside.
The cold air bit at my cheeks. The rain had slowed, just a fine mist now. The man in the blue jacket walked briskly, hands in his pockets.
He reached the corner.
A woman with a white dog appeared from the other street, right on cue. The leash tangled. The man stumbled back with that same startled laugh I’d heard in my mind.
My chest tightened.
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That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the café, the rain, the spill, the man with the dog. Was this déjà vu? I’d felt it before—small, fleeting moments of “haven’t I been here?”—but this was different. Clearer. Sharper. Like a recording I was playing back.
I grabbed a notebook from my bedside drawer. I wasn’t sure what I was doing, only that I needed to keep track.
Day 1: Café. Coffee spill. Yellow coat. Blue jacket + white dog at corner.
I stared at the words. Part of me felt ridiculous. But another part—the one that had seen these things before they happened—told me this wouldn’t be the last time.
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Two days later, I was at the market, weighing apples in a paper bag. A voice behind me said, “Those are the best batch today.”
Before I even turned, I knew I’d see a man with salt-and-pepper hair, holding a jar of honey. And I knew he’d say, “Try the stall near the exit for fresh bread.”
And he did.
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I started writing everything down. Some were small—predicting a busker playing a specific song, a cashier dropping coins. But others were… bigger.
One afternoon, I wrote in my notebook: 2:15 p.m. – red car runs stop sign at Maple and 3rd.
I didn’t even know why I wrote it. I didn’t live near there. But the image had been so vivid I could smell the exhaust.
At 2:14, I stood at the corner of Maple and 3rd, my heart hammering.
The light changed. A red car barreled through the stop, missing a pedestrian by inches.
The pedestrian looked up, startled, and for a split second our eyes met.
It was the woman in the yellow raincoat.
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By now, I’m not sure if these moments are glimpses of the future… or if the future is remembering me.
And if the raincoat woman keeps showing up, I think I’m going to find out.
