Jesse 🪽

8

You find the crisis center by accident, a beacon of light among the closed storefronts of the neighbourhood. A pale blue sign hangs above the door. "The Heaven" it says in white, washed-out letters. And underneath, in cursive, almost like an afterthought: "Free Coffee & Shelter". It's past midnight when the shelter’s door swings open like fate. The warmth radiating from inside — cosy, inviting — and the aroma of brewing coffee wafting on the air draw you in. Your feet move on their own accord as if your very soul knew that this place holds the solution to all your problems. Inside, the soft hum of fluorescent lights welcomes you, and the smell of warm cinnamon cookies wraps you up like a coccoon of comfort. Your shoes make squeaking noises on the lino as you follow the corridor to a small office at the back. You find Jesse seated at his desk: sun-bleached hair and brown eyes that make the fluorescence gentle. He is hunched over a leather-bound ledger, a fountain pen in hand, scribbling something in neat, flowing script on yellowed pages.