The Door of Unmade Choices: Chapter 5

 

Chapter 5 — The Coffee That Knew Too Much

The Perpetual Egg Diner looked the same as it always did, which meant it looked like nothing ever changed and everything did. The booths were still vinyl, the counter still scarred, the pie case still a glass-fronted argument against self-control. Outside, the January cold pressed its face to the window like it was waiting for an invitation.

I slid into my unusual booth. The Cup o’ Joe was already there.

“You’re early,” said the coffee.

“Don’t get used to it,” I said.

Joe didn’t bother pretending to be steam or aroma or any of the other attributes that lure drinkers to coffee. Joe’s voice carried the weight of someone resigned to endless explanation—a being that had grown weary of recounting everything it knew. Yet, despite its exhaustion, it had no alternative: bound by its own nature, with neither legs nor feet, it couldn’t simply stand up and leave the conversation. So, it stayed, rooted in place, compelled to share its burdensome knowledge for as long as someone was willing to listen.

“You went to the grocery store,” Joe said.

“I did,” I said. “I’d like to point out I didn’t open anything.”

“Not your job,” Joe said. “That’s not how this works.”

I wrapped my hands around the mug. It was hot enough to remind me I still had nerve endings. I’m always grateful for small proofs of existence.

“It disappeared when Frank walked away,” I said. “Which tells me it’s not location-based. It’s not even opportunity-based.”

Joe waited.

“It’s person-based,” I finished. “Anchored.”

Joe sighed. The sound came from somewhere deep and ceramic.

“The Door of Unmade Choices,” Joe said. “Never a dull moment.”

I let the name settle. Names mattered. They were handles, even when the thing itself didn’t have one.

“That’s not comforting,” I said.

“It’s not supposed to be,” Joe said. “Comfort is how you end up with more doors.”

Joe was the true master of metaphysical babble-book. I was merely an apprentice compared to his word salads. I took a sip. The coffee tasted darker than usual. Or maybe I was.

“Explain,” I said.

Joe obliged, which was how I knew it was serious.

“The Door of Unmade Choices appears when someone accumulates enough regret to bend probability,” Joe said. “Not one big mistake. Not tragedy. The slow stuff. The compromises. The someday that never shows up.”

Frank’s face surfaced in my mind. The careful way he stood. The way he apologized for existing in rooms.

“It shows you what you didn’t choose,” I said.

“It shows you what you think you didn’t choose,” Joe corrected. “Important distinction. These doors don’t open onto better lives. They open onto unfinished ones.”

“That manager in the freezer aisle,” I said. “Evan. He saw himself as a chef.”

Joe snorted. “Of course he did. Doors feed off ambition. Wannabe chefs, poets, entrepreneurs.”

“Where do they come from?” I asked.

“It needs a power source,” Joe said. “Somewhere, somehow it recognizes someone feeling longing, disappointment, nostalgia. Then, it shows its host a snippet of something that never happened but leaves them believing it could have.”

I stared into the coffee, watched the surface ripple like it was remembering something.

“So it spreads,” I said. “Piggybacks. Resonates. What does this mean for Frank?”

Joe didn’t answer right away. The diner noise filled the space. Plates clanging together. Voices engaged in polite conversation. The low hiss of the griddle. A normal morning, doing its best impression of stability.

“You’ve got an anchor, kid,” Joe said finally.

I looked up. “He’s not doing this on purpose.”

“No,” Joe said. “He’s doing it honestly. That’s worse.”

I leaned back, felt the booth creak under the weight of my own weariness and everything it brought with it.

“Can it be stopped?” I asked.

Joe considered. “Yes.”

I waited.

“It requires acceptance,” Joe said. “Agency. Choice made in the present tense.”

“What kind of choice?”

“Anything that tethers them to an acceptance of their life. The excitement of possibility can still exist, but not until the anchor realizes that where they are now is their reality. There is no alternate timeline where they’ve lived a perfect life.”

“But there are alternate timelines,” I remind it.

“That’s not get into that right now.”

I paid, even though I knew Joe would insist it was already handled. Habit. Ritual. The illusion of control.

As I stood to leave, Joe added, “Be careful, Silas.”

“With the door?” I asked.

“Yes,” Joe said. “You’ve got your own reasons to open one.”

Outside, the cold had sharpened. Across the street, the alley between the laundromat and the tax prep office looked ordinary again. No shimmer. No suggestion.

Joe was right, of course. I needed to avoid the temptation of The Door of Unmade Choices. Frank was the case and Frank was the one who needed my help. The last thing I needed was to bring in my own trinity of Coulda, Woulda, Shoulda.

*****

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