Learning to Make Coffee

This time, all his belongings were with him. His equipment, tools, and worn familiarity—back where they belonged. It gave him a brief moment of relief… but not safety.

He refused to open the door. He remembered what happened the last time he attracted attention.

No. Not again.

Instead, he turned to the only thing that made sense anymore—the coffee. He knew now: everything in this nightmare realm was connected to it.

So, he began experimenting. He ground all the beans left by the Child Anomaly and stored them in an old plastic container. This time, no overbrewing. No recklessness. He couldn't afford to waste even a single gram—not when his supply might be cursed... or precious.

He avoided using the cheap coffee maker. Instead, he set up the battered LPG tank, lit a quiet fire, and placed an iron pot on top. He filled it with tap water and brought it to a boil. Then, with measured hands, he added two tablespoons of ground coffee, stirring gently for three minutes. He strained it through an old mesh and poured the brew into a chipped cup, adding sugar to soften the edge.

He stirred it slowly, almost ceremonially.

Then he took a sip.

At first, nothing.

Then—everything.

A storm of emotion exploded inside him. Fear. Rage. Joy. Despair. Disgust. Envy. His senses blurred, and every feeling sharpened as if someone had peeled the skin off his soul. He shut his eyes, trembling. His breath quickened. His mind screamed.

He tried to suppress it—tried to empty himself. But emptiness was the wrong answer.

Then he embraced the feelings.

He thought of laughter. He felt joy… too much of it, nearly manic.

He thought of loss—and his lungs collapsed under the weight of sorrow.

He imagined wrath, and his mind boiled with violence.

Ten minutes passed like a nightmare.

Then, slowly, it faded. His body calmed.

He slumped down, drenched in sweat, and exhaled shakily.

"Hahhh…"

His lips barely formed the words.

"So I was right… The coffee has power."

He stared at the dregs in his cup.

"That coffee... it might be why that thing burned."

With that confirmation, his next move was clear.

He needed to understand it—to catalog it.

After hours of rest and trial-and-error brewing, Valen had a rough list of coffee types and their effects:

☕ 1. Normal Brew

Method: Boil water, add grounds, stir 3 minutes, strain, add sugar.

Effect: Intensifies any emotion the drinker focuses on. Dangerous when unfocused.

☕ 2. Slow Brew

Method: Brew at low heat over extended time, then strain and add sugar.

Effect: Suppresses all emotion. Produces a cold, focused clarity. Too much might make you numb... permanently.

☕ 3. Spoiled Brew

Method: Normal Brew + Spoiled Milk

Effect: Temporal dissonance. Causes the drinker to rewind 5 seconds repeatedly for ~30 minutes. Unclear if it's real or hallucination.

Warning: Extremely mentally draining. Nearly tore Valen's mind apart.

☕ 4. Burnt Brew

Method: Long boil at high heat. Thick, dark, bitter.

Effect: Attracts something.

When Valen tried it… the room chilled. He felt it immediately—the drop in temperature, the silence that pressed against the walls like a living thing.

He panicked. He threw the boiling coffee outside the door, killed the fire, and shut off all light. He stood in total blackness, not daring to breathe too loud. The darkness around him felt aware, like it had weight... like it was watching.

Then came the scratching.

Soft at first. Then everywhere.

Above him. Beside him. Inside the walls. Beneath the floorboards.

Scrrrkk. Skrrrrchh. Skrrkkk.

He clutched his chest. His heartbeat thundered—BA-DUM. BA-DUM.—so loud it drowned out thought.

But eventually… it stopped.

The darkness withdrew.

Valen turned the lights back on with trembling fingers, refusing to look out the window.

He didn't want to see what had been on the other side.

He wrote his note quickly:

Burnt Brew — Effect: Likely Anomaly Lure. Extreme caution.

— At the Same Time, Kilometers Away —

"Halt all movement."

Alex, the temporary commander of the Vanguard scouting unit, raised his hand sharply.

The anomaly detector on his wrist flashed red—and glitched.

Random, spiked error codes flooded the screen. Unreadable.

He reached into his gear pouch and pulled out a Bell without a Clapper. As he held it, the bell began to tremble violently in his grip. A thin, shrill sound escaped its rusted body—high-pitched and sickeningly soft.