All of a sudden, Shizuka is doubling over laughing, amidst her gasps for air. I stare at her and then I'm laughing. She's laughing and I'm laughing and the woman watches us curiously. It feels as if something had been released from the bottom of my stomach. It's so sudden it surprises me. But I can't tell if I'm laughing at her or with her or at us. I'm unsure why I'm laughing, but I am laughing heartily nevertheless. I laugh until my lungs burn and ache and my throat feels dry. Her face is red and so is mine.

"A caramel chai tea latte, soy milk, extra whip cream please," she says. Her brow is moist with sweat but she's smiling. I smile at her. Her eyes shine. It's like we've left something heavy behind at the door.

"And you, sir?"

"I'll," I hesitate, "have the same, with a shot of espresso."

We're seated in the far corner of the little cafe. The lights are dim and secretive - muted neutrals, soft orange glows and wood panels swim around us. Along the walls hang a few Christmas garlands and wreaths, neatly strung. The entire shop is empty. There are no patrons. The only sound is the jazz-reggae of Jason Mraz's "The Freedom Song" playing quietly from some indistinct source like from a car radio far away, and the tinkle of cups and plates behind the counter where tall coffee machines and all kinds of laboratory tubes and gadgets stand. The place is filled with the aroma of coffee beans, but it's different than the shop where we met. I begin to remember wisps of my old home, when my mother would make coffee in the morning before sending me off to school. Even when it had been instant powered coffee, it would have this distinguishable taste, of home. It's strange, because I've never remembered much of it at all. Even when I try to recall anything, it would usually be blank. I didn't think much of it, but now, it seems like such memories should have never left; they belong to me in the first place.

Shizuka wipes her forehead with a napkin and leans closer on her elbows. "We're safe for now."

"Why?"

"This place is a little special. I've been here twice before. That woman, the owner," she jerks her head at the counter, "she's an Anomaly."

"I thought I was about the only one."

"No, there are some around, but either they have been caught, and who knows what happened to them, or they are keeping low. It's easier for them, because they don't stand out as much as you do. Nevertheless, it's safe here, they don't know we're here. The owner keeps her curtains down, her phone line is cut, she has no television, no radio, no connection to the outside world. The shop is almost invisible from the outside, almost undetectable by the System. I only accidentally stumbled in here. Incidentally, the specialty store across the street is a famous one, and so, it retains the attention. Anything brighter or louder keeps them distracted. We'll leave as soon as they've gone out of the area."

She checks her appearance in a mirror she retrieved from her bag, though there isn't anything wrong with it.

"So you know her?"

"I wouldn't say I know her, I haven't spoken to her, but she knows that I'm different, and I know she's different."

"You can read her thoughts."

"Yes I can. She's curious right now, more concerned about her own safety, but she's not going to tell us that. We best keep quiet as well. We're just customers."

"We shouldn't have laughed."

"I couldn't help it," she grins. "I haven't ran in a long time; I feel like a child again."

"Likewise," I say.

The woman comes by with two large mugs on saucers. "Please enjoy," she pauses, "if you need anything else, let me know." There's a mysterious undertone to her voice. She knows something about us, just as we know something about her.

I take a long sip from my coffee. It's extremely sweet. The spice of the chai tea is distinct, but merges exceptionally well with the soy milk, like lovers that match one another - before the espresso kicks into the blend, powering right through. I can't taste the caramel, but it's somewhere inside.

"How does it taste?"

"Tastes like Christmas." I smile. Then I stop and realize it's Christmas Day. It seems like days since what happened last night. There's much compressed into a short span of time and space.

"I'd like to try it with espresso some time."

"Would you like a sip?"

"No, it's okay. I will likely want to drink yours instead."

"We can switch."

She shakes her head and drinks half her cup before setting it down. "It's been a while since I had one."

"How does it feel?"

"Like I've been reborn." Her nose crinkles in melodic laughter. She looks into my eyes.

I avert my gaze and watch the owner busy herself with objects out of sight behind the corner, as the music switches to Maroon 5's "Sunday Morning" even though it isn't Sunday. She seems to enjoy American music. She's keeping a low profile, like the Emoto man had said, following repetition. But if she's aware of her own identity or not, it isn't clear. Perhaps like I had been, she has no idea that she could be in danger.

I look back at Shizuka. "Does she have a lot of thoughts or something?"

"I think she has retained more memory than thoughts," she says. "But yes, she does have more cognitive activity than the usual, at her age. She doesn't seem to be passing on into Image form. They're bound to find out. Most begin to reach the final stages of Image-Processing at around fifty or so, some earlier, some later, but at fifty, it's a sharp decline. But I've heard from the espre circles that the age of decline is earlier and earlier now. Some even have reached that threshold by twenty-seven."

I'm reminded that isn't too far from my age. "What happens to those old professors, philosophers, authors and the like? The intellectuals?"

"Either they are Anomalies, who treat their life and profession as a repetition, without ever breaking Etiquette or they've become hollow shells replicating content from experience, rather than coming up with new material. There's a point where you plateau. Even prolific authors write about the same things over and over again. Otherwise, they'd likely have been captured, confined somewhere, while the media covers up their disappearance, their deaths are announced or they simply no longer make public appearances."

I remain silent and stare into the depths of my drink. The steam blurs my sight.

"Things are just covered up, huh? Like Dr. Ando from Tokyo University who just went missing in the middle of his 'Letters to a Prophet' manuscript?"

She shrugs, "that's the way it always has been and always will be. No one wants to speak the truth. On both sides. Not that the truth will actually help anyway. I've heard many thoughts and stories, uninvited, and almost all of it never sees light. It remains in the deepest corners of consciousness and is suffocated or forgotten, at least on the conscious level. It can show up in dreams or nightmares, it can suddenly escape on an impulse at breaking point, but they don't welcome it. It's like people are afraid of their minds."

"Should I be afraid of my mind?"

"That's up to you to decide, right?" She looks at the remaining half of her cup.

I feel the coffee burn down my throat. It's a little too hot to drink but I force it down anyway.

"Are they gone yet?"

She taps her temple. "No."

"We stay here until they're gone?"

"Yes."

Time slows to a halt in here. The only thing moving is the music and its tones and rhythms, ever fluid, like water, switching courses when the song changes.

"I presume you are staying for a little while?" The older lady comes up to ask.

Shizuka smiles at her sweetly and nods. "Yes, just a little while."

"It's nice to take time off on Christmas Day." The woman muses. "Would you like anything to eat? Biscuits? Scones? Macarons? Or perhaps something to read?"

"No, we're quite alright," says Shizuka, but I interject, "reading sounds wonderful; what do you have to read?"

"Come right this way." The woman straightens and her eyes seems to twinkle. She has this aura of dignity and refinement. "I actually have a private little library that I offer to patrons every now and then. But only if they seem like they enjoy reading." She looks at me.

Shizuka continues drinking her chai latte at her seat without moving, but her eyes follow us as we walk to the back of the cafe. I'm a good height taller than the little old lady, yet I don't feel out of place. It's as if she's my mother, showing me where she had been keeping all my old things.

"I do enjoy reading, yes."

She leads me down a hall under an open doorway. It's narrow and has a low ceiling, and there are no lights; but from somewhere it's set aglow with soft lemon. The sound of John Mayer fades off into silence. The same happens with the warmer air and the smell of coffee. Back here, there is only the smell of wood. At the end of the hall, there are two doors, one is the bathroom and the other is blank.

"Just through here," she says.

A rather large room greets me inside. The air inside is colder. There's a small window that looks outside, mahogany curtains let down. It is probably from there that the winter air looks for gaps and seeps in. The ceiling is high and the walls are lined with old wooden shelves. It might be just about the size of my entire apartment; as small as it is, it's still impressive for being in the back of a cafe. If it were a restaurant, this might be the kitchen. But the little shop does fine with the counter in the front.

Everything in here is plain and ordinary, but the books are a wide assortment of colours and bindings. Some older ones look like leather with gold embroidery, and yellowed pages, while the newer ones shine as if there's a spotlight aimed true. Perhaps it's because the shelves and the room itself are bland that the books seem much more significant.

"Take your time here, just return whatever you read to the shelf in the spot it was taken from. I've ordered them in a special way dear to my heart."

"Special way?"

"Yes, well, it's how my daughter had it organized."

"Ah. Your daughter likes books?"

"Yes, she adored reading. She passed away almost six years ago now."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Life has to come and go. It breathes in and then it disappears. The only thing that is sad is how short her life has been and that she no longer gets to enjoy her books. But perhaps, wherever she is now, she will have books to read."

"How old was she?"

"Seventeen. She would be twenty two now. Her birthday is coming in March."

"I see," I pause, uncomfortably. I glance at the titles along the shelves. "I'm sure she is in a good place. And I'm sure she has her books."

The woman smiles at me. "What is your name?"

I hesitate but I don't lie this time. "Maeda. Maeda Naoki."

"Maeda," she says my name softly, like recalling some old distant fragment buried deep in ancient legends and memories. Her eyes seem to withdraw. They are black but they grow darker.