Under_The_Whispering_Door_by_TJ_Klune

is not to say anything at all.”
“Bullshit,” Alan muttered. He crossed his arms and glared at Hugo. “Did
he screw up or something? He’s got guilt written all over him. What’d he
do?”
“If he wants to tell you, he will. Leave it alone.”
And wonder of all wonders, Alan seemed to listen in his own way. He
threw up his hands before stalking to the opposite side of the room toward a
table where a small group of women sat.
Wallace sighed in relief as he looked back at Mei.
She nodded at him before rolling her eyes.
“Right,” he said. “Kids these days.”
She coughed into her hand, but he could see the curve of her smile.
And that should have been it. That should’ve been the end of it.
Nancy sitting there, not speaking. Hugo waiting, never pushing. The teacup
in front of her, unacknowledged. After an hour (or maybe two), she’d stand,
chair scraping against the floor, Hugo telling her he’d be there, always,
whenever she was ready.
And then she’d leave. Perhaps she’d come back tomorrow and the next
day and the next day, or perhaps she’d be missing for a day or two.
Nancy sat in her chair. Hugo sat across from her. After an hour, she stood.
Hugo said, “I’ll be here. Always. Whenever you’re ready, I’ll be here.”
She moved toward the door.
The end.
Except Alan shouted, “Nancy!”
The light bulbs in the sconces flared. Nancy stopped, her hand on the
doorknob.
“Nancy!” Alan shouted again, stunning Wallace into immobility.
Nancy turned toward the sound of his voice as she frowned.
Alan jumped up and down in the center of the tea shop, waving his warms
wildly, screaming her name over and over again. The tables on either side of
him shifted as if someone had bumped into them, sloshing tea and knocking
muffins over.
“What the hell?” a man asked, staring down at the table. “Did you feel
that?”
“Yeah,” his companion, a young woman with pink bubblegum lip gloss,
said. “It shook, right? Almost like—”