The Taste of Something Burning

The Taste of Something Burning

The first thing I noticed was the smell.

Not smoke, not yet. Something thinner. Sharper. Like ozone after a lightning strike, but with a sweetness underneath that made my stomach turn. I’d been wiping down the espresso machine, the rag warm and damp in my hands, and I stopped mid-motion because the air had changed. It was subtle, the way a room changes when someone walks in who shouldn’t be there. You feel it before you see it.

I looked up.

The man at the corner table was still there. Same table he’d been at for the last three hours. Same posture—hunched forward like he was holding something in his chest that wanted out. He hadn’t ordered anything in the last hour. Just sat there, staring at his hands.

I’d noticed him come in. Hard not to. He had that look—the one people get when they’re running from something they can’t name. I see it a lot in this neighborhood. People drift through, lost in their own heads, nursing a single cup of coffee for hours because they don’t have anywhere else to go. But this was different. This man wasn’t just tired. He was hollowed out.

His eyes had this quality to them. Like he was looking at something far away that only he could see. And every few minutes, he’d flinch. A quick, sharp movement, as if someone had touched his shoulder. But no one was there.

I should have called out to him. Should have asked if he wanted a refill, just to break the spell. But I didn’t. I told myself it wasn’t my place. He wasn’t bothering anyone. He wasn’t causing trouble. And I had work to do—the lunch rush was coming, and the filter basket needed changing, and there was a delivery due that I needed to sign for.

So I looked away.

That’s the part that haunts me now. The way I looked away.

Because when I looked back, he was gone.

Not walked-out-the-door gone. I would have heard the bell. Not bathroom-break gone—I could see the restroom door from where I stood, and it was closed, the little red indicator showing it was occupied. No, he was just … not there. The chair was pushed back. The empty cup sat on the table, still warm when I touched it later. But the man had vanished like a breath in cold air.

I stood there, holding the rag, and I felt something cold move through me. Not fear, exactly. Something older. Something that knew, before my brain could form the thought, that the world had just tilted off its axis.

“Sarah?”

I jumped. It was Danny, the afternoon barista, standing behind me with a box of pastry bags in his arms. “You okay? You look like you saw a ghost.”

I forced a laugh. “Just tired. Long morning.”

He shrugged and carried the box to the back. And I went back to wiping the machine, because what else was I supposed to do? Call the police? Tell them a customer disappeared into thin air? They’d think I was on something. They’d write it off, file it away, forget about it by end of shift.

But I couldn’t forget it.

Because that night, I dreamed of the door.

Not a real door. Nothing I’d ever seen in waking life. It was tall and dark, made of something that wasn’t wood or metal or stone, and it stood alone in an empty field under a sky that had no stars. I knew, with the terrible certainty of dreams, that something was behind it. Something that had been waiting a long time. And I knew—I knew—that the man from the coffee shop had gone through it.

I woke up gasping, tangled in my sheets, the taste of ozone on my tongue.

The next day, I tried to shake it off. Told myself it was stress. I’d been working double shifts, not sleeping well, drinking too much caffeine. My mind was playing tricks on me. That’s all. The man probably just slipped out when I wasn’t looking. People do that. They leave. It’s what they do.

But the dreams didn’t stop.

Every night, the same door. The same empty field. And every night, I felt it—a pull, like a current dragging me toward something I didn’t want to see. I started staying up late, drinking until my vision blurred, just to avoid closing my eyes. It didn’t work. The dreams found me anyway.

And then the letters started.

No return address. No signature. Just typed words on plain white paper, slipped under my apartment door while I was at work. The first one said: You saw him. You remember. Don’t forget.

The second one, three days later: They’re watching. Be careful who you trust.

The third one was just a date. A date that hadn’t happened yet.

I should have gone to the police. I should have told someone. But who would believe me? A coffee shop girl with a history of anxiety and a tendency to jump at shadows? I could already hear the pity in their voices, the gentle dismissal. Take some time off, sweetheart. Get some rest.

So I did what I always do when I’m scared. I buried myself in routine. I showed up for my shifts. I smiled at customers. I made small talk about the weather and the new seasonal latte. I pretended everything was normal.

But nothing was normal.

I started noticing things. Small things at first. A car that seemed to follow me home, always keeping a block behind. A man in a gray coat who stood across the street, smoking, never looking at me but always there. The way conversations would stop when I walked into a room, then start again in that careful, deliberate way that meant I’d been the subject.

And then James showed up.

I didn’t know his name then. He was just a customer—another man at another table, ordering black coffee and staring out the window like he was looking for something. But there was something about him. The way he moved, like he was carrying a weight he couldn’t put down. The way his eyes—blue, sharp, haunted—seemed to see right through me.

He came in every day for a week. Sat at the same table. Ordered the same thing. And every day, I felt that pull again—the same current I’d felt in my dreams, dragging me toward something I didn’t understand.

On the fifth day, he spoke to me.

“You’ve been having dreams,” he said. Not a question. A statement.

I nearly dropped the coffee pot. “What?”

“Dreams,” he said again. “About a door. In a field.”

My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat. “Who are you?”

He didn’t answer. Just looked at me with those eyes—those old, tired, knowing eyes—and said, “You need to come with me. There isn’t much time.”

I should have said no. Should have called for Danny, called the cops, run out the back door and never looked back. Every survival instinct I had was screaming at me to get away.

But I didn’t.

Because I recognized him. Not his face—I’d never seen that face before. But something deeper. Something that remembered him from a place before words, before names, before this life.

I set down the coffee pot. I took off my apron. And I followed him out the door into a world that was already breaking apart.

That was three weeks ago.

Three weeks since I left everything I knew. Three weeks since the sky turned wrong and the streets filled with people who weren’t people anymore. Three weeks since I learned that the door in my dreams was real, and that the man who’d vanished from my coffee shop had opened it.

I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow. I don’t know if there’s a way back to the life I had. But I know this: I was right to be afraid. And I was right to follow.

Because whatever’s coming—whatever’s already here—I’d rather face it with my eyes open than pretend I didn’t see.

This is just one moment from Seventh Journey. If you want to experience the full story, it’s available on Amazon.

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📚 The Seventh Journey Trilogy

• Book 1: amazon.com/dp/B079581Q4G
• Book 2: amazon.com/dp/B0792HGC35
• Book 3: amazon.com/dp/B0H5T4VP81