Rain slicked the streets as Kene slipped into the midnight café. He always came here when the city felt too loud. Tonight it was empty except for a man in the corneran older version of himself.

The stranger beckoned with a crooked finger.

“You finally made it,” he said.

Kene sat, though he didn’t remember walking.

They spoke in half sentences. The older man described memories Kene had not yet lived: a promotion he hadn’t earned, a marriage he hadn’t proposed, a son he hadn’t held. Each detail landed like a raindrop on glass, real but untouchable.

When Kene asked who he was, the man smiled. “You, of course. I’m what you leave behind.”

Lightning flashed. The café windows showed no street outside, only endless mirrors reflecting mirrors. Kene turned back to the table, but the chair opposite was empty.

A waitress he hadn’t noticed approached.

“Ready to settle the bill?” she asked.

“What bill?”

“For staying too long,” she said, handing him a receipt that bore his own signature dated ten years ahead.

The café door opened to a bright morning. Kene stepped through and found himself back in his apartment, alarm ringing. Rain tapped the window as if nothing had happened. On the table lay the receipt, still damp.

He could not remember the man’s face, only the echo of a voice saying, “Every exit is an entrance.”