The Hokkien Ghost

Jay's Point of View

Mornings came early on the island.

Not because I liked them, but because work doesn't wait, and neither does the heat. By six, the sun was already reaching through the cracks in the walls like it was trying to drag you out of bed by the ankle.

I got up quietly, careful not to wake my brother. He was sprawled on his side of the mattress, snoring softly, one arm thrown over his face like the light personally offended him. At sixteen, everything was a battle, even sleep.

I didn't mind it. Let him rest. He had school in a few hours.

Me? I had three deliveries to make and a fish stall to help set up.

By the time I stepped outside, the street was already waking up — roosters arguing, kids chasing after each other with empty candy wrappers, someone dragging a water container loud enough to wake the entire street. 

I started the tricycle and let it cough itself awake. The engine was old, stubborn, but familiar. Like most things in my life.

I drove first to the pier. The fishermen were already in, pulling in their catch, sorting, weighing, shouting prices over one another like a chorus of sea-worn uncles. I joined them quietly, like I always did, unloading crates, icing down the fish, loading what needed to go to the market.

No one asked why I was there. They just passed me the next basket.

I wasn't really one of them — not fully. My hands weren't calloused enough. My Hokkien surname still earned second glances. People remembered the hardware store. My parents.

But they didn't talk about it.

And I didn't bring it up.

There was nothing to say, anyway. My parents died, the store folded, and the life we knew — one of polished floors, stocked shelves, rice cookers that sold themselves — was gone. My brother and I moved in with Auntie Cora, who lived in a house so quiet it echoed, with curtains that never moved and bowls of fruit no one ever touched.

She was kind in her own way. Generous. But I never liked imposing. So I worked.

I worked when I was tired. I worked when my classes piled up. I worked when my friends said I didn't have to.

Because I did.

It wasn't some noble, dramatic sacrifice. I just didn't like being a weight in someone else's house.

By ten, I'd finished the deliveries and headed to campus — half-dried sweat clinging to my shirt, hands smelling faintly of salt and diesel. I sat in the back of my class, took notes, and didn't speak unless called. Professors liked me because I showed up. Classmates forgot my name until it was group work season.

That was fine.

I didn't need to be remembered by everyone.

Just the right ones.

Later that afternoon, I was back at the market, helping push crates into place, watching flies circle the fish heads we didn't sell. The air was thicker now, heat rising from the pavement, sweat pooling at the small of my back.

Still, I liked this part of the day. The work was honest. My body ached in the right ways. My brain, for once, didn't overthink.

I stopped by the store after, bought one sachet of instant coffee — strong, bitter, no sugar. The kind that tasted like someone was yelling at your tongue.

It kept me awake on long nights.

It reminded me I was still here.

Then, I headed toward the café last.

Jules had been texting me since last week, something about a loose light fixture or a broken stool. Probably both. His café was cozy but chaotic, like him. And I owed him more favors than I could count.

And if I was honest, I liked being there.

The place always smelled like burnt sugar and cinnamon, with the steady hiss of the steamer and the soft clatter of cups. Even on the busiest days, it felt like everything moved in its own rhythm. Familiar. Steady.

I used to help Jules out after school when he first opened — patching leaks, fixing loose screws, hauling sacks of beans from his supplier. He'd pay me in iced drinks and stories I didn't ask for. It was routine. Comfortable.

Then one afternoon, she was behind the counter.

Didn't say much. Just handed me a coffee like I was another regular, which, by then, I guess I was.

I wasn't expecting it to taste any different. But it did.

Strong, smooth, no frills. The kind of brew that didn't try too hard, but stayed with you after the cup was gone.

I looked up. Noticed the crooked way she tied her apron. The faint crease between her brows, like she was always halfway through thinking about something else. There was nothing flashy about her, no practiced smile, no fake small talk.

She just… noticed things. Quietly. Naturally.

And maybe that's why I noticed her, too.

I didn't ask her name. Jules mentioned it once in passing, and that was enough. I just kept showing up.

At first for the coffee.

Then for the way she started setting it on the counter before I even ordered.

It became part of my day — finish morning deliveries, survive class, pass by the café and sit with a cup that felt like it had been waiting for me.

She didn't talk much. I didn't either. But in a place full of noise, there was something about that kind of quiet that felt like breathing room.

I didn't overthink it. I just liked being there.

Even when I was tired. Especially when I was tired.

That stop — the coffee, the quiet, the way her eyes always lingered for half a second like she was checking if you were okay — it became something I looked forward to.

A small part of the day that felt good, without needing to explain why.

I never told anyone. Not Jules. Not my brother. Not myself, really.

***

The café came into view just as the drizzle picked up again.

I'd taken the long way — partly to let the rain hit my face, partly because I didn't know what I was going to say. I'd rehearsed about five different openings since I got off the boat. Most of them were terrible.

"Hey, miss me?" Too smug.

"Guess who didn't die at sea?" Weird.

"Sorry I disappeared. Fish emergency." What?

None of them sounded right. But I figured I'd know what to say when I saw her.

I pushed open the café door.

Warmth. The smell of roasted beans, burnt sugar, and something soft baking in the back. Same light. Same quiet.

Then I saw her.

Not behind the counter like I expected, but by the window. Leaning into the glass like the weight of the last two weeks had landed right between her shoulders. She looked tired. A kind of quiet tired I recognized. Like she'd kept going even when everything in her asked her to stop.

I froze.

All the practiced lines evaporated like steam.

Just—poof.

No speech. No clever opener. Just my voice coming out before I could catch it.

"You always stare at the window like that?"

She turned.

And just like that, I forgot every reason I had to be nervous.

Because she was here. Because she looked at me like she didn't expect to — and wasn't sure if she should — and that meant she'd been thinking about me, too.

I lifted my hand, sheepish. "Hey."

"Thought you got abducted by the sea," she said.

Her voice wasn't cold. Just guarded.

I smiled, stepping in, wiping water from my face with the back of my hand. "Almost. Boat engine died. Got stuck helping my cousin on the next island. No signal, no power. Just fish. Lots of them."

She crossed her arms. "And no way to say you weren't dead?"

I rubbed the back of my neck. "Didn't have your number. Thought about yelling from the next island over, but figured it might scare someone."

She didn't smile.

Not yet.

But something in her shoulders eased. Like she didn't have to hold her breath anymore.

I stepped closer.

She didn't move away.

Outside, the rain thickened, tapping gently against the glass.

The café was nearly empty. Just a few crumbs on the tables. A whir from the espresso machine behind the counter.

And her.

The girl who made my favorite cup of coffee without asking how I wanted it.

The girl I'd thought about more than I should've.

The girl who, somehow, made this place feel like more than just somewhere I stopped by after work.

For a second, I thought about everything I didn't say. How tired I'd been. How much I'd wanted to see her. How weird it felt to miss someone without realizing it until you're standing in front of them again.

"Missed your coffee," I said.

She raised an eyebrow. "That all you missed?"

I met her eyes.

I didn't need a practiced line for that.

I just smiled.

And somehow, that was enough.

For a moment, neither of us said anything. The kind of silence that wasn't awkward — just full. Like the space between exhale and inhale.

Then she turned, slowly, and walked behind the counter. Wordless, but not cold. Just… letting it settle.

I followed, stopping a few feet away, watching her hands reach for the familiar tools. The portafilter, the tin can of beans, the tamper she always knocked just a little too hard against the edge.

Her movements were slower today. Like her body remembered the rhythm, but her mind hadn't caught up yet.

I wanted to say something else. That I was sorry for vanishing. That I'd thought about this moment for fourteen days. That I'd imagined seeing her here — exactly like this — more times than I'd admit to another human being.

But I didn't.

Instead, I reached out and gently turned the grinder to the right setting. "You always leave it on fine grind," I said.

She glanced up at me, a small crease forming between her brows. "Because I like the crema."

"You also like breaking the machine," I said.

That got me a slight eye-roll.

And then, finally, a smile.

Tiny. Barely-there. But real.

She brewed the espresso, milk steaming in the background. The familiar hiss and hum filling the space like nothing had changed. But everything had.

She slid the cup across the counter toward me, fingers brushing the ceramic just a second longer than necessary. "Try not to vanish again," she murmured, eyes not quite meeting mine.

I took the cup, the warmth grounding me.

"I won't," I said.

And I meant it.

I took a sip.

Still the same. Still the kind of coffee that tasted like someone had paid attention.

Luana stepped back, tugging her apron into place, her hair already slipping loose from its clip again.

Behind us, the café stayed quiet. The kind of quiet that didn't ask for more.

But in my chest, something soft and steady began to settle.

Not a fire.

Not a spark.

Just a warmth.

A quiet knowing.

I didn't need her to say anything else. Not yet.

I was here.

She was here.

And for the first time in weeks, that was more than enough.