Chapter 3

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 Chapter 3: Café Déjà Vu


The café was dim, lit with strands of Edison bulbs that hung like fireflies caught in conversation. Elias sat quietly, his posture too poised for the room. Around him, people sipped oat milk lattes and typed away on devices thinner than his journal. He didn’t understand their language, but none of it mattered—not when she stepped into the light.

Ella Moore.

She walked to the mic stand with a familiarity that shattered him. She wore a black dress with silver details around the collar, reminiscent of the lace Eleanor once adored. Her voice poured through the speakers like a soft wave of memory.

She sang “Dream a Little Dream of Me,” and with each note, Elias felt his soul unravel.

He wasn't sure how long he sat there—whether it was minutes or decades—but by the end of the set, he was certain that this was no coincidence.

The café clapped, politely at first, then earnestly. Ella smiled, bowed gently, and disappeared behind a velvet curtain. Elias, heart thudding like a runaway pendulum, waited. He came back the following night. This pattern continued the following night.

For a week, he sat at the same table, at the same hour. He never spoke to her—how could he? What would he even say?

Hello, I’m your husband from the 1800s. You died, but I wound a clock and chased your shadow into the future.

On the fourth night, she noticed him. She tilted her head slightly mid-song. There was a brief moment of recognition, fleeting as a breath, yet it remained present.

On the seventh night, she walked over after her performance. Now that she was up close, her eyes were filled with a powerful sense of familiarity.

“You come every night,” she said with a smile. “Do you not like jazz, or do you like me too much?”

Elias tried to respond, but the words caught behind centuries of longing.

“I’m sorry,” he managed, his voice low. “It’s just… you remind me of someone.”

Ella’s smile softened.

“Someone from the past?”

He looked at her like a man looking at a dream that dared to answer back.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Exactly that.”

That night, they strolled through Soho, the city pulsating with energy. He didn’t say much, but she didn’t seem to mind. She called him "mysterious" and said there was something strangely old about him—not in appearance, but in presence.

Elias didn’t sleep. He couldn’t.

He carefully wound the pocket watch beneath the city’s moonlight and softly whispered her name into the stillness:

“Eleanor.”

And somewhere inside her apartment, Ella Moore dreamed of lace, clocks, and rain on cobblestone.

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