"Staan! How are you?"

— Couldn't be better," he replied, equally cheerful. "And you? Has the day gone well?"

— As usual: we deal with it. Can I get you some coffee?" the owner asked with a shrug.

— Certainly. Black…

— With sugar and the newspaper, I know," the fifty-year-old concluded. "I'll let you go get settled, Carmen will bring it to you.

— Thanks."

Joining the terrace, Staan briefly crossed paths with the radiant waitress, who greeted him and assured him she'd be back soon. The night was beginning, and, probably due to the coolness of the day, no one else was outside the café bar. On the horizon, the last rays of the sun died in a hypnotic palette of reds, pinks, and oranges, relinquishing their duty of light to the street lamps. Strings of bulbs around the terrace lit up in turn and softened the glare of car headlights on the street.

Staan checked around to make sure he was alone before pulling out a leather notebook from an inside pocket. He had no trouble finding the page he was interested in because it was swollen with a map, which he unfolded on a part of the table. Despite the numerous events that constantly stirred the city, he had managed to sift through the information and had marked with a cross the locations of incidents he suspected to be linked to the potential serial killer that had been shaking the news of the city of Marseille in recent weeks. Marseille was a city whose beauty rivaled only its danger, and an investigation of this kind should not have held his attention. Unfortunately, he could not shake off a doubt, as if his subconscious were trying to warn him. Observing for the umpteenth time the map and the cross-shaped path he had traced, Staan once again questioned the logic behind the strange pattern but interrupted his reflection when he heard the coffee machine stop inside the bar. Saved by the finesse of his hearing, he tucked the plan and notebook safely inside his jacket well before Carmen passed through the door of the establishment. He knew that a glance at the contents of the leather cover would neither be desired nor welcomed. Placing the cup and newspaper in front of him, the waitress smiled before walking away with a light step.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

He enjoyed the contrast between the winter chill and the warmth of his drink, while letting his thoughts wander. Despite the years since his arrival in Marseille, he never tired of the bistro: the dark wood of the terrace, whose shade reversed with the sun's brilliance; the canvas of the awning that protected as much from rain as from the rays of the star; the planks of the waist-high fence, wood echoing that of the ground and whose size allowed ample enjoyment of the view of the avenue. The bar had its own atmosphere, its own universe, and he felt good in it.