Gray stood outside the doors of a warm and well-lit café. The streets of London were soaked in heavy sheets of rain that hit the rooves like stones. Around him, people walked in groups of twos and threes, holding umbrellas to shelter themselves from the heavy rain, or walking under the overhang of nearby buildings. But Gray walked alone. He had always walked alone. It wasn’t the lack of company that was the problem, but the fact that no one could see him, or even hear him. The world was like a blind and deaf man to him. A lady from inside the café opened the door and walked into the street, passing right through Gray’s immobile body. He stiffened as the lady shivered violently, her arms covered in goosebumps; though it was more from Gray’s coldness than from the rain. With a small sigh of defeat, Gray trespassed the door and stepped into the warm café.
People were sitting on couches or chairs near the bar. Everyone was drinking steaming cups of coffee, hot chocolate, or tea, and a fireplace burned in the opposite wall. Everything was incredibly lively and colorful compared to the cold and grayness of the London streets. Or to Gray himself. As he wandered around, Gray took a cup of coffee from the counter labeled “Jordan,” and sipped it, relishing the tasteful flavor. Clearly, the coffee had been made for someone else, but Gray decided to take advantage of the circumstances and enjoy that small pleasure. No one was going to notice the cup had disappeared, right? Well, not until the actual owner came looking for it and an argument started concerning the disappearance of the cup of coffee and whether or not it had been made. Gray thought that was a very amusing thing to watch.
He took another sip from the cup and smiled a little as the bitter warmth spread through him, eradicating some of his body’s eternal chill a little. At least he could taste things. He walked slowly to the fireplace and leaned against it, smiling wider as the heat from the furnace warmed him even more.
After a while, an old woman came to sit on the table in front of him. She had a big ball of yarn in her bag, along with her knitting needles. In her hand she was holding a knitting magazine showing scarves of different colors and patterns. Mildly interested, Gray leaned closer to see what she was reading.
“You should definitely do that one”, Gray said, but the old woman didn’t hear him, no one ever did. ”Looks comfy”, he added.
With a quick start, the old woman sneezed violently, leaning forward so much from the force of her sneeze that she almost impaled her nose on one of her knitting needles.
“Bless you”, Gray said, laughing a little, but nobody answered him back.
“You’re welcome”, he said soberly, remembering himself. He took another sip from “Jordan’s” coffee and surveyed his surroundings with curiosity.
All around him people were chatting with others, talking about the latest news, gossip, business, or anecdotes. Usually, he liked to hear to what other people were saying, maybe laugh at them a little, and make the occasional snarky remark. But he was never the one that was being listened to. From the beginning, whatever or whenever that was, he had been invisible, the outsider. People passed right through his body as if he were made of smoke; which, he thought sadly, might as well be true. It had never been possible for people to see him, to listen to him, not even the sound of his breathing. He had never been touched, talked to, or befriended by someone. He had always walked alone. Ever since the beginning had started everything had been this way, and apparently, nothing had changed.
The people’s chatter started getting overwhelmingly louder and louder, enough for Gray to want to cover his ears and make a run for the hills. But then, he spotted her, and it was like his world stopped spinning at once. He had seen her before, in his head, his dreams, God, literally everywhere he went.
She was always there, and she was like a soothing balm to him. With a halo of golden curls and large hazel eyes; to Gray she looked like an angel. An Angel with no name, it seemed, for Gray didn’t know what it was. She was sitting alone in a chair right across from him, and was playing the guitar softly, her fingers touching the strings like a caress. He stared, entranced by her, and realized she was singing too, softly, softly. He walked closer to her until only a few feet separated them, and began to listen attentively to her song. As the guitar’s chords mixed with the musical sound of her voice, he realized that he knew the song, and that it was strangely familiar and intimate to him. He listened even more closely, his eyes transfixed on the Angel as she sang.
“Gray is the color of the rain,
Gray is the color of the pain,
It is the color of my heart
the one that shattered from the start.
There in the shadows he stands alone,
Alone in the darkness he wanders home
But he cannot find what cannot be
He longs for a life he cannot reach
Don’t worry Gray, I’ll find you then
There will be no longer pain to bear
I’ll be by your side, I’ll show you the path
No more wandering, no more pain
Gray will no longer walk alone
Gray will finally find a home.
Gray is the color of the pain…”
Gray listened attentively to the Angel’s song, enchanted by it. Incredibly, the song moved him deeply and soothed his soul. The Angel stopped singing abruptly, as if woken up from a trance. She looked wildly around; her mass of curls swinging around her head. Then, her eyes focused on Gray. She shivered slightly, and frowned, like she often did when Gray had seen her before, almost as if she was sure he was there but couldn’t see him. She sighed heavily and started to pack her guitar. Giving her coffee one last gulp, she placed it back on the table.
All the while Gray stood motionless, watching her movements. He had never felt more alive, more real. Before he knew it, the café’s door was closing behind her, and her silhouette was engulfed by curtains of water. He walked slowly to the table where she had been sitting and took her cup in his hands. ”Sharon” was written in delicate, cursive, handwriting. So the Angel has a name, he thought, and with a start hurried out of the café, the cup still clutched in his hands. He had come upon an Angel that had given him hope, hope that had never been there before for him, and he was not going to let that hope get away so easily.
The words of the song played themselves over and over again in his head, as if they were clinging desperately to him and pushing him forward. “Gray will no longer walk alone. Gray will finally find a home”. Later, Jordan and the staff would wonder how Jordan’s cup had disappeared from the counter and appeared mysteriously in the other end of the café, completely empty.