#withalittlehelp

Part 1 — The Routine

I work at a small coffee shop tucked between a laundromat and a florist. The kind of place that smells like vanilla syrup and steamed milk no matter what time of day it is.

We get the same faces every morning — tired commuters, gym people pretending to like protein lattes, a few regulars who’ve been coming since before I started. But around two months ago, we got a new kind of regular.

Her name was Lena V.

I only know that because of her mobile orders. She never talked much — always picked up, smiled, said “thank you,” and left. Same drink, every single day, at 9:37 AM on the dot.

Iced vanilla oat latte, extra light ice.

Not 9:30. Not 9:45. 9:37. The ticket would print right between the second round of morning rush orders. I swear I could set my watch by her.

She always parked in the same spot too — the one by the planter with the chipped paint. I’d glance up and catch a flash of her car, this dusty silver hatchback, like a part of the scenery that never changed.

She had this quiet, steady energy. Never rushed, never on her phone, always looked like she’d just come from somewhere calm. We even joked about her in the back sometimes:

“She’s more consistent than the espresso machine.” “Lena’s probably a robot programmed for lattes.”

It wasn’t mean, just the kind of running commentary you make to pass the time during long shifts.

And honestly? I kind of liked her routine. There’s something comforting about regulars — the way they become part of your shift rhythm. She made the job feel predictable.

Then one Tuesday morning, the ticket printer chirped right on time: 9:37 AM. I smiled automatically. “Lena’s latte,” I said out loud without looking.

Except when I did look, the order made me stop mid-motion.

DOUBLE ESPRESSO, BLACK. NO SUGAR. NO MILK.

For a second, I thought the system glitched. I double-checked the screen. Same name. Same pickup time. But not the same drink.

I even scrolled back through her previous tickets just to make sure I wasn’t mixing her up. Nope. It was always the vanilla oat latte. Always light ice. Always the same cheerful little “thank you ☕” in the notes.

This one didn’t have any notes at all.

I remember standing there, holding the cup, feeling this weird pit in my stomach. It sounds stupid — people change their orders all the time. But with Lena, it felt wrong.

I remember her once laughing when a friend ordered a straight espresso. “It tastes like burnt metal,” she’d said. “I don’t know how people drink that.”

So why was she drinking it now?

I stared at the screen until the manager called from the back, “Order up?”

I made the espresso, but the whole time, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Like when you walk into a room and can tell someone’s just been there even though it’s empty.

9:37 passed. Then 9:45. No Lena.

By 10:15, I was still watching the door when someone else walked in — a tall man, sunglasses, dark jacket, quiet. He went straight to the counter and said,