Content warnings: Obnoxious coffee shop patrons, car crash.
“One pumpkin spice latte with oat milk, a shot of espresso, and a dash of honey.”
Adam wanted to yell that a dash wasn't a proper measurement, but he needed this job, so he forced his best customer-service smile instead. “Pumpkin spice latte with oat milk, a shot of espresso, and a spoonful of honey?”
She pursed her lips, clearly not liking his attitude. “Yes, a spoonful of honey.”
Adam took her payment and went to make her coffee, rolling his eyes as he turned away. The sheer audacity of some people beggared belief. I mean, really. Getting mad at someone for wanting an accurate measurement? At least this was his last order of the day, the singular over-complicated latte between him and freedom.
CRASH!
The biggest pickup truck he had ever seen smashed through the cafe’s front wall. The damn thing didn’t stop, didn’t even slow down—if anything, it seemed to be accelerating, mowing down the customers in a cacophony of screams and crunching bones. Adam realized he was screaming, too, his vocal cords the only part of him that moved despite the horror holding the rest of him in place.
The truck rammed into the counter, wood and glass and steel buckling under its weight. The cash register sailed through the air, barreling into Adam’s chest and slamming him against the wall. The truck crashed into the wall beside him, shaking it so violently that Adam’s head snapped forward, then back into the stone.
He heard the crunch, but didn’t feel it. He didn’t feel anything at all. Shock, probably. He’d heard stories about people who didn’t realize they’d been stabbed until ten, fifteen, twenty minutes later, driven by bodies determined to get them someplace safe before collapsing. He had always thought them exaggerations, but now he suspected they had been understatements. He wasn’t just free of pain; he felt great.
Adam rose on surprisingly steady feet, glanced at the wall behind him, and stared at his crumpled body.
“Shit.” He wasn’t in shock. He was dead. He was… a ghost? He raised semi-transparent hands to his face. “Holy shit.”
Ghosts were real. He was one of them, doomed to haunt the café forever. The one place he was absolutely sick of, that he always looked forward to escaping for the night. Now he’d never escape it again.
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”