The Cup

Edward walked through Plovdiv's cobblestone streets. The ancient Roman ruins loomed over him, remnants from another time. Exhausted, he stepped into a dimly lit Кафене—a decision that would not end with the cup.

"Your strongest traditional coffee and bottle of water," he ordered, collapsing into a chair. His coffee arrived black as pitch. That's when he noticed her—a raven-haired woman hunched over a tiny cup, her eyes burning with concentration.

 "Excuse me, do you speak English?"

"A little. American?"

"Yeah, from Pennsylvania. You're local."

"Yes."

"Mind if I ask what you're doing?"

"Gledane na kafe—reading coffee grounds. I see destinies written in the dregs"

"Fascinating. Can you read mine."

"Sure." She got up and sat beside him. "Drink. Every drop." She then peered into the cup. Her fingers tightened around the rim. A small intake of breath. Then she pushed it away.

"What is it?" Edward said smirking.

"Nothing. I see nothing."

"So why did your face turn serious when you looked into it?"

She remained silent and avoided eye contact.

Annoyed, Edward placed twenty Bulgarian Lev on the table and walked out.

A block away, the woman approached him. "Please stop for a second," she said. "I saw the Scythe. Roads. You travel."

Edward looked back at her, "this is nonsense."

"Believe what you want, but I've told you what I saw."

"Thanks for your advice," he said and hurried to catch a bus.

He arrived in Sofia, the warning forgotten and made his way out the bus terminal. There, he found her cold eyes staring from across the street.

He froze.