The young woman with pale hair sat alone in a coffee shop. She wore a long black coat over a pink shirt and a pair of old shorts and striped leggings. On her feet were a pair of simple sneakers. She hunched over the small circular table she sat at, sipping at a hot cup of mocha, eyes focused on the open book in front of her.
She was a regular. No one knew much about her, since she was fairly quiet, but she always had a book with her. She never stayed with one genre, always jumping around from romance to horror to self-help to the occasional autobiography. From what the baristas could get out of her, they knew that her name was Emma and that she lived nearby and, of course, liked to read.
On this particular day, she was reading a mystery novel of some kind, and seemed to be very involved in the plot, judging by how rarely she remembered that her mocha existed. Occasionally a slight frown would cross her features, as though reading a twist in the plot that she had not expected.