When Jacob was a child, he believed his mother was the warmest thing in the world. She always smelled of vanilla and jasmine, told bedtime stories, and called him “my little light.” Everything changed one rainy evening when he was ten.
There was a knock at the door. His father opened it — and two policemen were standing on the porch. After that, life split in two.
“An accident,” said his father.
“She died instantly.”
The words made no sense. Jacob couldn’t understand how a person could just disappear from the world.
He only remembered how his father closed the curtains every time it rained.
The funeral was quiet. The coffin was closed.
His father said it was better that way.
And the boy believed him — because he wanted to.
Years passed. Jacob grew up. He moved to another city to study. He rarely thought about that day, though sometimes, passing perfume shop windows where the scent of vanilla lingered, his throat would tighten.
It all started by chance.
One autumn day, he stopped by a small café near the train station. A simple place — cheap coffee, an old record player, and soft light. He ordered a latte, took out his phone, scrolling through the news, when he heard a voice behind him:
— One latte and a cinnamon roll, right?
He froze.
The hair on the back of his neck stood up.
That tone, that warmth — too familiar.
He looked up.
The woman behind the counter — about forty, her hair tied in a bun, eyes tired but kind. But her smile… that was her.
The smile from his childhood. The one that appeared when he dropped a cup and said “sorry.”
— Excuse me, — he breathed out. — Do we… know each other?
For a moment, she met his eyes — and immediately looked away.
— I think you’re mistaken, — she said quietly and turned aside.
But her hand, holding the cup, trembled.
And the scent — the same. Vanilla and jasmine.
He couldn’t leave.
He came back the next day. Then again.
She avoided him, changed shifts, disappeared into the back room whenever he entered.
But the more she avoided him, the more certain he became.
On the third evening, he waited until the café closed.
She stepped outside, pulling her coat tighter, not noticing him standing in the shadows.
— Why didn’t you tell me? — he asked.
She froze. A long silence. Then she turned.
Tears shimmered in her eyes.
— Because you were meant to live, Jake.
He took a step closer.
— Live without you? After what I saw?
The woman covered her face with her hand.
— If I had stayed, you wouldn’t be here.
— What do you mean?
She looked at him — her gaze weary, full of fear.
— It wasn’t an accident. It was a warning. They told me to disappear — or you would be the one to suffer.
The words fell into the silence like stones into water.
Jacob felt his knees weaken.
— All these years… — he whispered. — You were near?
— Sometimes.
— Why didn’t you come?
— Because if you saw me, it would all start again.
He stood before her, unable to say a word. The world suddenly shrank — just the two of them and the noise of the city beyond the glass.
She stepped closer, placed her hand on his cheek — the same way she used to when he was a child.
— I never stopped loving you. It was just the only kind of love that could survive — from afar.
He closed his eyes.
And for the first time in twelve years, he smelled vanilla again.
Later, when he came back, the café was already closed.
The sign was gone, the windows empty.
No trace, no address, no name.
Only an old photograph in his wallet and a receipt from the café, where instead of a signature it said:
“For my light.”
Sometimes he thinks he imagined it all.
But when it rains, and the air smells of jasmine, he hears her voice again — somewhere between the city’s hum and the beating of his heart.
“One latte and a cinnamon roll, right?”
