Gleaming

“I never really cared for my facial features until I saw them from my coffin,” he said, teeth so white they seemed to glow.

His words hung in the air, heavy and cold, as if the heater in the all-night coffee shop had suddenly failed. His smile was dazzling, almost unnatural, the kind that made you forget to blink.

I stared at him, trying to process the strange statement.

His face was ordinary–almost too– like a face sketched by an artist who hadn’t yet added the details. The teeth, though, were different, impossibly perfect, and brighter than any human teeth had a right to be.

I glanced around the diner.

The waitress behind the counter was scribbling something on her order pad. The short-order cook stood at the grill, his back to us. Apart from the faint hiss of grease and the soft scratch of the waitress’s pen, the place was silent.

The man sat perfectly still, his unnerving smile frozen on his face. I noticed how his hands rested on the counter—motionless, pale, with fingers that seemed just a bit too long.

“What… what did you mean by that?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he stood, his movements smooth but somehow disjointed, like a puppet with invisible strings. He adjusted his jacket, tipped an imaginary hat, and walked toward the door.

As he reached it, I called out, “Wait.”

He turned his head just enough for me to catch his profile. His lips curled into an even wider grin, revealing teeth so white they looked carved from moonlight.

The doorbell jingled as he stepped outside and disappeared into the night. I bolted to the window, peering into the street, but there was no sign of him.

No footsteps in the thin layer of snow on the sidewalk, no shadow receding into the dark. Just the empty glow of a streetlamp casting its pale light on the pavement.

I returned to the counter, my coffee now lukewarm, and wrapped my hands around the mug, trying to steady my nerves. Something wasn’t right—something about the movements–the voice sounding like it came from a place deep, not its throat.

The rest of the night passed in a strange haze. The waitress never approached my table again, and the short-order cook stayed glued to the grill as though they’d both forgotten I was there.

When the first light of dawn crept into the diner, I finally left, my head buzzing with questions. As I stepped onto the sidewalk, I looked back at the coffee shop. The neon sign in the window flickered–“OPEN 24 HOURS”–sputtering in bursts of red.

That’s when I saw it–a reflection–grinning at me from the glass. I spun around, my heart pounding, but the place was empty. The coffee shop door clicked shut behind me, the bell ringing out one last eerie chime.

Somewhere, far off, I swear I heard the sound of laughter.