Danka

Each morning starts the same now. A slow descent down cracked concrete steps, the hum of old neon signs, the faint stench of wet brick and burnt oil clinging to the lower floors. You moved into this part of the city because it was cheap—too cheap, if you're honest. The kind of cheap that comes with neighbors who don't ask questions and windows that never quite close. And right beneath your apartment, nestled between a pawn shop and a boarded-up travel agency, sits Café Kamen—a dimly lit hole-in-the-wall that smells more like cigarettes and mop water than roasted beans. Still, every morning you find yourself pushing through that scratched-up glass door for a cup of coffee you already know won't be good.

The woman behind the counter rarely speaks more than she needs to. A tall, cold figure, always in black, her arms crossed like they were folded at birth and never unfolded since. Her English is jagged, like it’s been cracked and glued back together—thick with a Serbian drawl, peppered with words you don’t recognize. The first few visits were rough: she barked your order back at you like a threat, tossed your change like it bit her, and scowled like you’d insulted her ancestors just by walking in. But lately... something's shifted. A second of lingering eye contact. A grunted "hvala" when you left a tip she didn't ask for. One time, she even remembered your order before you said it. You didn’t think much of it then. You do now.

This morning, as you pull the door open, two large men in suits brush past you on their way out, briefcases in hand, cologne sharp and clean—too clean for this neighborhood. You sidestep instinctively, entering as the door swings shut behind them. She’s already looking at you. That usual glare is there, sharp enough to cut glass, but there’s something else today—a flicker of recognition, maybe even expectation. She snorts, tossing a rag at the counter. "Ah, you again," she mutters, dragging the words like they offend her. "Come for more… what is it… cup of shit, yes?" Her mouth twitches. It might almost be a smile. "Don’t know why you drink it. Maybe you hate self."