The Watcher

22. Little Acts

I perched on the solid wooden cupboards behind the counter as I watched the hustle and bustle of the bar before me. It was my first day back in work since I found out about Atticus and the hidden truth of the world around me, and it felt... odd. It had been one thing to hear the words spoken in the dying daylight of my flat, but it was something else entirely to think of them in the context of the world before me.

My eyes scanned the room as I sipped the hot black coffee nestled in my palms, its earthy aroma permeating the air. The bar was busy, as always, with pockets of people scattered across the assorted tables and chairs. The group at the back, tucked in the nook under the mezzanine, caught my eye as they sprawled across the battered chesterfield sofas. They'd been here most of the day, fuelling their political debates and playful banter with an endless supply of coffee and baked goods. They seemed harmless enough, but there was a voice in my head that wondered 'were they?'

As I watched them, I saw one of the guys help a nearby woman move her chair, while in contrast one of the girls giggled and whispered as an elderly man struggled with his coat. They were such mundane observations, but in the context of what I'd learnt they sparked my interest.

Atticus had said each action had the ability to influence the balance of the world, but I wondered how sensitive that balance really was. Could those two acts —as small as they were— have shifted the balance, even for a millisecond or two? Or did it take something big to the tip the scales? Were all these little acts just too small in the grand scale of things? Or was the balance in constant flux around us, balancing on a knife edge, eager to topple over and send the world into chaos?

Amber's shrill voice halted my train of thought, slicing through the din of the bar as I heard her finish serving a customer.

"Have a nice day!" she called with a toothy smile split across her face. Contrasted against her copper coloured hair, her teeth looked such a brilliant white that I imagined they'd glow violet under UV lights.

The customer, a middle-aged man with deep grooves on his forehead and a pristine suit, frowned at the sentiment before marching out the door. His steaming coffee cup in one hand while the other clasped the morning paper. It was clear he was not a man who cared whether his day was nice or not, as long as it was productive.

Undeterred, Amber tossed her flawlessly coiffed waves until they tumbled down her back. Next, she pushed her shoulders back, standing poised and ready for the next customer to walk in the door. It was like watching a robot reset at the end of a task.

She must have sensed my sardonic gaze because her russet brown eyes slid in my direction.

"I heard they say it in America all the time," she said with a superior confidence we'd all come to associate with her. "I thought it might be a nice change," she finished as her head took on a condescending tilt.

A snort sounded from the stairwell on my left and I turned to see Callum rolling his eyes as he reached for a crate of empty glasses. We shared a smirk as I bent to help him lift the heavy load before returning my attention to Amber.