The Eternal Café

The café was a place out of time.

It stood at the intersection of nowhere and everywhere, its windows glowing faintly against the void. Inside, the air hummed with the sound of ticking—not the steady rhythm of a single clock, but the chaotic symphony of hundreds, each marking a different era. The walls were lined with them: ornate grandfather clocks, sleek digital displays, ancient sundials, and devices that defied description. Their hands spun forward, backward, and sometimes in spirals, as if time itself were unraveling.

Behind the counter stood the barista.

They were neither young nor old, their face a mask of calm indifference. Their eyes, however, burned with a cold, calculating intelligence. They moved with precision, polishing a porcelain cup until it gleamed under the dim light. The café was empty, as it often was between patrons, but the barista knew that wouldn't last. Time, after all, was always moving, and someone was always lost.

The door creaked open.

A man stumbled in, his boots scuffing the wooden floor. He was disheveled, his coat torn and his face shadowed with exhaustion. His eyes darted around the room, wide with confusion and desperation. He didn't belong here—not in this place, not in this time. But then again, no one did.

The barista smiled faintly. "Welcome."

The man hesitated, his hand gripping the doorframe as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. "Where… where am I?"

"You're exactly where you need to be," the barista replied, their voice smooth and reassuring. "Come. Sit."

The man hesitated a moment longer before shuffling to the counter. He slumped onto a stool, his shoulders sagging under the weight of his struggles. The barista watched him carefully, noting the dirt under his nails, the faint scar on his cheek, the way his fingers trembled as they gripped the edge of the counter. They already knew his name. They already knew his story.

"What's your poison?" the barista asked, setting the polished cup in front of him.

The man blinked, confused. "I… I don't know. Coffee, I suppose."

"Coffee it is," the barista said, turning to a sleek, silver machine that hissed and steamed as it brewed. They worked in silence, their movements precise and deliberate. When they placed the cup in front of the man, the aroma was intoxicating—rich and dark, with a hint of something unplaceable.

"Drink," the barista said. "It will help."

The man hesitated, then lifted the cup to his lips. The moment the liquid touched his tongue, his eyes widened. He gasped, his body stiffening as the world around him dissolved.

---

The man stood in a crowded square, the air thick with the smell of smoke and sweat. Around him, people chanted and waved banners, their faces alight with passion and fury. He recognized some of them—friends, comrades, people he had fought alongside for years. At the front of the crowd, a figure stood on a makeshift stage, rallying the masses with fiery words.

It was him.

He watched as his future self raised a fist, shouting something he couldn't quite hear. The crowd roared in response, their voices shaking the ground beneath his feet. Then, chaos erupted. Soldiers poured into the square, their weapons gleaming in the sunlight. Shots rang out, and the crowd scattered, but his future self stood firm, leading the charge against the oppressors.

The vision shifted.

He saw himself standing over the body of a tyrant, the man who had ruled his country with an iron fist for decades. The people cheered, lifting him onto their shoulders as a hero. He had done it. He had freed them.

The vision faded, and he found himself back in the café, the cup still in his hands. His heart raced, his mind reeling from what he had seen.

"What… what was that?" he stammered.

"Your future," the barista said simply. "Or at least, one possible future."

The man stared at them, his eyes wide with awe and fear. "How… how did you do that?"

The barista smiled faintly. "The coffee has a way of revealing what lies ahead. But remember, the future is not set in stone. It is shaped by the choices we make."

The man set the cup down, his hands trembling. "That future… it's what I've been fighting for. But it feels so far away. How do I get there?"

The barista leaned forward, their eyes locking onto his. "You must act now. The longer you wait, the stronger your enemy becomes. Strike while the iron is hot, and the people will follow."

The man nodded slowly, his resolve hardening. "You're right. I've been too cautious. If I wait any longer, it might be too late."

The barista's smile widened, just slightly. "Exactly."

---

As the man stood to leave, the barista watched him carefully. They had seen his future—not just the one they had shown him, but the countless possibilities that branched out from this moment. In some, he succeeded, toppling the tyrant and freeing his people. In others, he failed, his rebellion crushed before it could begin. But the barista wasn't interested in those futures. They had their own agenda.

"One more thing," the barista said as the man reached the door.

He turned, his hand on the knob. "Yes?"

"Be ruthless," the barista said, their voice cold and commanding. "Mercy is a luxury you cannot afford. If you hesitate, even for a moment, you will lose everything."

The man nodded, his jaw tightening. "I understand."

And with that, he was gone.

---

The barista stood alone in the café, the ticking of the clocks filling the silence. They picked up the man's cup and examined it, their fingers tracing the rim where his lips had touched. Then, with a flick of their wrist, they tossed it into a sink, where it shattered into pieces.

They turned to a small, ornate clock on the wall—one that didn't tell time in hours or minutes, but in events. Its hands shifted, marking the man's rebellion as it unfolded in real time. The barista watched as the timeline branched and twisted, each decision creating ripples that spread across history.

They smirked.

The man thought he was fighting for freedom, for justice, for his people. But he was wrong. He was just a pawn in a much larger game—a game the barista had been playing for centuries. The rebellion he was about to spark would destabilize the region, creating a power vacuum that the barista's agents would fill. From there, it would be a simple matter to extend their influence, weaving their empire into the fabric of history itself.

The barista turned away from the clock, their mind already moving to the next move, the next patron, the next gambit. They had all the time in the world, after all. And they intended to use it.