B.G. Smith

The coffee tasted normal. Dark chocolate, earth, a hint of oak. Hot, but not scalding. Nothing special about it.

I sipped from the cup: the typical unbreakable ceramic mug found at diners across the country.

“What kind of coffee is this?” I asked the waitress behind the counter.

“Special blend,” she replied.

I looked at my hands. When did they become translucent?

By the third sip, I could see the living patrons. There were only three of them. The rest of us⁠—the waitress, the cook, the dozen others⁠—we’d been dead for years.

Still serving. Still drinking. Still waiting.