She Ordered the Coffee. Then She Vanished...
- Orlando Rivera
- Nov 2
- 2 min read
She always ordered the same thing.
Small black coffee.
Two raw sugars.
No lid.
Said she didn’t like how the plastic warped the flavor, even though she always drank it on the go. That small detail stuck with me, someone who cared about the taste, even when life moved too fast to enjoy it properly.
She never sat. She never stayed. But she was part of that place.
Every morning, 7:03 a.m. Like clockwork.
Same line. Same nod to the barista. Same coat with the fraying cuff.
You wouldn’t call her friendly. But she wasn’t cold either. Just... familiar.
Nobody knew her name.
But everyone noticed when she wasn’t there.
The first day she didn’t show, it was a blip.
The barista hesitated for a second before moving on to the next order.
The man who usually held the door lingered longer than he needed to.
Even the kid who sat in the corner with headphones looked up, confused by the break in rhythm.
The second day, the absence was louder.
It buzzed in the air like static.
By day three, she was more present in her absence than she ever was in person. Everyone had questions, none had answers.
Someone asked if she worked in the law office upstairs.
Someone else thought she might live in the brick building on 8th.
A woman swore she once saw her reading Murakami on the train, said she looked lonely even then.
But no one knew for sure.
No name.
No conversation anyone could remember.
No trace of where she came from or where she went.
Just seven minutes of presence, every morning.
And now a gaping hole.
The barista said she’d been coming for almost a year. That she never changed her order.
That she once mentioned a sister. Or maybe it was a roommate. He couldn’t remember.
I thought about printing a photo from the café’s security footage.
Posting it on a pole like a missing pet sign.
But what would I write?
“Have you seen her?
No name. No address. Just… gone.”
It made me realize something unsettling.
We think people will leave footprints.
Evidence. Social media. Someone to report them missing.
But most of us? We’re one missed appointment away from disappearing without a ripple.
And then, this morning, seven days after she vanished, a woman walked in.
Same coat.
Same shoes.
Same tired eyes.
But it wasn’t her.
She walked straight to the counter, ordered nothing, and pulled a folded envelope from her coat pocket.
She said: “I was told to give this to whoever noticed she was gone.”
And she handed it over, addressed in delicate handwriting:
To the People at the Café.
Then she walked out.
No explanation.
No name.
Just the letter.
And what it said?
You’re not ready.
👉 Read Part 2: “The Letter.” Coming next.
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