The Revelation of Light and Dark (Chronicles of the Stone Veil 1)

I wolf down the rest of my bagel and coffee, grab my backpack by the side door off the kitchen, and head out to my car.

Since this is my house, I get privileges of parking in the gravel driveway that runs right up to the detached garage that serves as Adira’s room. The only real perk is I’m a few feet closer to the door. Rainey and Adira park on the street, and Myles has never owned a car. He either takes the bus or bikes wherever he needs to go.

I love my car. It’s a Subaru Forester in the coolest metallic gray-green color I’ve ever seen. It’s eight years old, and I got it for a great price. It’s been a trusty mode of transportation, and even though traffic in Seattle is some of the worst in the world, I love driving the jam-packed freeways into downtown. It helps me polish my skills of observance, calm steadiness, and the ability to make dangerous maneuvers without hesitation by slipping into the next lane when needed. Not sure when I would ever need such skills outside of driving the Seattle freeways, but they’re nice, shiny, and ready for use.

I’m less than a mile from 99—also known as Aurora Avenue—which is a straight shot south into downtown where I work. It’s roughly an eleven-mile trip that can sometimes take me an hour, depending on rush-hour traffic. It’s my time to gear up for the day, though, and I jam to the prince of Seattle, Kurt Cobain, as I make a mental list of tasks I need to accomplish at the coffee shop.

Just before I cross the Aurora Bridge, it starts to rain, and my hands go white-knuckled on my steering wheel. I flip on my windshield wipers, grimacing each time they lift as they make a horrible squeaking sound. While I love the rain of the PNW, it makes the metal grating of the Aurora Bridge slippery as hell and causes my anxiety to go sky high when I have to travel over it. It’s the thing I hate about my city the most and all of my daredevil, rush-hour traffic maneuvers grind to a halt as I slow my speed down to a near crawl, clearly pissing people behind me off.

As I inch across the bridge, I ponder that what I do love about Seattle can’t be found in tourist attractions or guidebooks. It’s the cultural diversity that attracts me to stay here despite the bad traffic and rainy weather. It’s the environmental conscience of most of the residents, a shared love and commitment to keep our planet healthy and whole. It’s the vibrant art scene and gorgeous scenery that’s unparalleled. Sure, call me a granola cruncher, but there’s not a lovelier place in the world to live than my city, especially on a clear day when you can see west across the Puget Sound to soaring views of the Olympic Mountains, or the even clearer days when Mount Rainier shines from the south with its snowcapped peak. I’ve heard that it can even be seen as far away as Oregon and British Columbia, but I’ve not seen that with my own eyes, mainly because I’m not much of a traveler.

Of course, that’s more by circumstance than desire, as I pretty much live hand to mouth working as a coffee shop manager in an expensive city and am too poor to travel.

I park in a garage two blocks from where I work. There’s a light mist—nothing that could actually be called rain—so I leave my umbrella tucked away as I move with the pedestrian crowd. It’s not enough to get my clothes wet, but the mist will wreak havoc on my hair.

My dad always used to say, “Finley… if you love what you do, you’ll never work a day in your life”.

I know that to be true because I really love my job and never think it’s a burden in any way. I even get a little squeeze of fondness in my heart when the front door of the coffee shop comes into view.

It’s called One Bean, and it’s the most amazing place ever.

Recessed in between a pharmacy and a small branch bank on 6th Avenue, the exterior is a worn red brick. The front door is solid wood on the bottom, painted black, with paned glass on the top. Just above the door is a small sign in white cursive lettering that says One Bean. I’m sure many marketers would frown on such a horrible effort of getting the shop noticed, especially since it’s recessed inward by about ten feet, but the owner was far smarter than they’d expect. As the shop itself is two stories, there’s a small balcony above the door that holds two tables where patrons can sit on a nice day. It’s bordered with black wrought-iron railing and attached to the exterior of said railing is the word COFFEE, done in marquis lettering three feet tall and blazing with light bulbs along each letter.