In another life, this may have been different.

In another life, this may have been different.

The coffee shop was crowded. It was a popular stop, strategically located at a busy train station.

You didn’t particularly feel like coffee. Or anything, really. And yet…

“I’ll just have a black, thank you.”

The girl behind the counter nodded. But she made no move to punch in the order, instead just staring at you. Her eyes flickered briefly with something you couldn’t quite place.

You coughed.

“Excuse me?”

She shook her head, apologizing.

“I’m sorry. That’ll be four dollars. Can I get the name for the order?”

You told her, then went to stand at the waiting area. Despite the crowd, your order was called out in quick fashion. 

Walking up, you took your drink from the girl. Inadvertently, your hand brushed against hers.

“Oh! Sorr-”

The coffee shop was gone.

Death and destruction took its place.

It was a warzone. You looked down at the heavy rifle in your hands. Men were screaming curses and war cries even as they went down.

Move, a voice told you. Move or be killed.

A trench lay behind you, and you scrambled for it, one hand clamped on your helmet. Then you heard a cry of pain. Yours.

Caught in a crossfire, a bullet had grazed your arm. Hot blood pulsed down your arm. Dimly, you realised the bullet had hit an artery.

You went down, rolling into the trench, already pulling your handkerchief out. A tourniquet. That was what you needed, and you quickly bound the wound. You could feel circulation cut off as you tightened it.

Gritting your teeth, you staggered to your feet. The world lurched, forcing you back to one knee.

“Medic!”

A fellow soldier had noticed you, and was now calling for the combat medic. He took a quick look, nodding at the first-aid you applied.

“Let’s get you some help.”

Together, they dragged you back deeper behind the lines and on to a stretcher.

“I can still fight,” you slurred out, “we have these bastards on the run!”

“Like hell you can,” said the other soldier. “Drown them in your blood, maybe.”

“Easy, soldier,” the medic was wrapping another cloth round your arm. “Leave it to your brothers out there.”

The field hospital came into view, orderlies and soldiers hurrying in and out. The scent hit you first, the metallic tang of blood and dying men.

“Doctor Müller! This one’s losing a lot of blood.”

The doctor entered your vision, a look of concern on her face. Along with something else.

“Put him here, let me see him.”

You stared at her, blinking.

She was familiar, impossibly so.

A drink. She had been serving you a drink. At the mess hall? No, she was a doctor, about to save your life.

You frowned. 

It was the girl, you were sure of it. The girl at the coffee shop. 

What was a coffee shop?

As she began to cut the sleeve of your uniform away, you croaked out.

“Are you an angel?”

“No,” she replied gently, placing her hand on yours. “My name is Doctor Elizabeth Müller. You are safe now.”

Just then, an orderly rushed in, shouting.

You blinked.

The canvas flaps and oil lanterns. The soft lights of the coffee shop. Men crying out for their mothers. This week’s hit song playing on the radio. The orderly still shouting, voice bouncing around your head. 

“MOVE! YOU’RE HOLDING UP THE LINE!”

Her hand was still on yours. Her eyes staring back at you.

“Doctor Müller?”

She cocked her head, releasing your hand. Adjusted her apron.

“Liz.”

“...what?”

“My name is Liz.”