lwise says, "This is a sequel to a story I have on AO3, Milk and Sugar, but I put in enough background that it should stand alone."
Väinö Lehtinen looked up and down the deserted street in the early morning sunlight before kneeling to pick up the coffee mug. The deep snow was undisturbed except for the few meters before the door, which he kept shoveled and swept. Piping hot when he set it out before dawn, the coffee now bore a thin skin of ice. He flung away the coffee and ducked back into the coffee shop, closing and bolting the door behind him.
Väinö stood for several seconds in the main room, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness. The room was lit by a single low-power bulb, and few cracks in the boarded-up windows admitted light. As he stood, he breathed deeply, enjoying the rich scent of coffee beans. Living above the shop and its crates of beans as he and Pihla did, they were acclimated to the odor and could smell it only after spending time outside.
With his eyes adjusted, he hung his heavy winter coat on the rack by the door, laid his hat and gloves on the shelf, and crossed the open center of the room to the kitchen beyond. The round tables and the chairs were neatly stacked against the walls, as if one day the coffee shop would reopen. It had been closed for fourteen months, ever since the Rash disease had swept through, destroying their village and the world.
As he filled the mug with water from the barrel by the sink, Pihla came down the stairs, one hand on the handrail and the other on the wall. Her night vision was poor, and the dim light made her cautious on the stairs. Despite the warmth of their potbellied stove, she wore a thick sweater and a knitted scarf.
Pihla gave a nervous laugh. “I almost feel like we should go look for her. Like a lost puppy.”
Väinö swished the water around the mug, poured it out, and set the mug on its shelf, turning it to show the name “Aada”.
Before the coming of the Rash, Aada had been a loyal customer of their shop, appearing every morning for her regular order: coffee with milk and sugar. Väinö and Pihla had kept the shop open even as their customers fell away one by one until there were none. They themselves had turned out to be immune to the disease and, having nowhere else to go, had fortified their shop against attacks by monsters. Before all communications with the outside world failed, they'd learned that those who survived the Rash suffered horrific mutations and became murderously vicious. With their home secure, the two had settled in to wait for the authorities.
Three weeks later, a hideously deformed creature, a victim of the Rash who had not died, had scratched at their door. Recognizing the creature as Aada by the patterned silk scarf she still wore, and fearing she would break down the door, they had set out a mug with her regular order; she had drunk it and gone away. The next morning, she had returned, and they had set out her order again. Whether to thank them for the coffee, or to protect her supply, she had killed a monster that approached their home.
And so it had gone for fourteen months.
Until three days before, when they suffered the worst cold snap they could remember, and she stopped coming at all.
“It's even colder today,” Väinö said. “I still think she's just hunkered down somewhere, and she'll be back when it warms up.”
“Maybe.” Pihla looked out into the main room and sighed. “Or maybe she tangled with a monster too tough for her.”
“That would be best, you know.”
“Yes, but, you know, I'd miss her.” They no longer thought of Aada as a monster. Rather, they pitied her, and had many times discussed whether they should — or even could — put her out of her misery. They hadn't tried, not knowing how difficult it might be, or how dangerous she might be if injured.
“We'll see when it warms up. It has to warm up some time.”
***************
They stopped putting out Aada's order, not to save the coffee, for they had far more than enough, but to save the dry milk and sugar. Väinö shoveled and swept outside the door every day, and they watched for her as they drank their morning coffee in the pre-dawn twilight. A few days later, the weather broke, the cold becoming merely painful rather than deadly, and Aada forced her way towards them through the deep snow.
Her dark green leathery body was roughly round, a meter across, two mismatched limbs on one side and three on the other, a stubby tail, and a narrow neck about half a meter long ending in a bald head drawn out into a muzzle. Around her neck she wore a patterned silk scarf, the same scarf she'd worn as their customer so long ago.
“Quick, give me your coffee!” Pihla poured Väinö's black coffee into her own and held the mug out to him. No instructions were necessary; he took the mug downstairs, poured the coffee into Aada's mug, added dry milk and sugar, and hurried to put her mug outside. Back upstairs, he and Pihla hugged each other as they watched Aada lift the mug with a distorted hand and raise it to her muzzle-like mouth.
***************
As Christmas approached, they put up Christmas lights around their upstairs window. These lights, like the regular lights, were powered by a battery, which they kept charged by a stationary bicycle generator. The Christmas lights meant more work on the bicycle, but were worth it. They had no tree and no presents, but at least they had Christmas lights.
A few days after they put up the lights, they were drinking their coffee and watching as Aada drank her coffee then paused and looked up at the lights. Väinö leaned forward to peer more closely at gashes on her leathery hide. “She's been in another fight.”
Pihla put her forehead against the window to look, squinting. Her night vision was so poor that even the full moon, now setting, was little help to her. “Oh, no! Oh, Väinö, look! She's lost her scarf!” Intent on the wounds, he hadn't noticed the missing scarf. “Her scarf,” Pihla repeated. “Oh, poor Aada.” She covered her eyes, unable to hold back sobs.
Väinö pulled his wife into his arms, searching for something to say. “The fabric store. Remember that fabric store? I don't think there's any silk, but there's patterned fabric. Remember?”
Pihla leaned back and wiped her eyes. “Could we? Could we go get some?”
“Of course! It's only a couple of kilometers. We can leave about noon and be back well before dark.”
Pihla hugged him tightly, and when they separated, Aada was gone.
They didn't go that day, or the next day, or the next. The overcast sky and light snow would allow monsters to move by day, and some remained in the village despite Aada's efforts.
At last, the sky cleared, and they skied into the village, shotguns slung over their shoulders. The fabric shop was in good shape, the door unlocked, and the surrounding snow undisturbed. Sunlight shone through the picture windows, but they took no risks, checking every shadow with their wind-up flashlights.
“Pastels, no, she needs stronger colors — too garish — nice, but the pattern's too big —” Väinö watched with a fond smile as his wife went through the fabric, finally coming up with three bolts, which he stuffed in his backpack.
After a wary but uneventful return, they prepared three large scarves with wide, close-sewn hems. When the scarves were ready, they waited for a clear, windless morning before laying the scarves out on the snow, weighted down with smooth, clean, river-rounded pebbles. Back in their bedroom, they sipped coffee and waited for Aada.
Aada trudged through the snow to their door, her head lowered, downed her coffee and replaced the mug, before turning to return to wherever she denned by day.
“No!” Pihla whispered. “No, Aada, don't go.”
Väinö put an arm around her. “We can screw hooks in the door and hang —”
A breath of wind twitched a corner of a scarf, and Aada's head snapped around, jaws open. After a moment, she closed her jaws and bent her neck to study the scarves: ruby-red with a delicate geometric pattern, sapphire-blue with a pattern of birds and butterflies, and emerald-green with a pattern of flowers. Väinö and Pihla held their breaths as they watched, arms around each other's shoulders. At length, Aada picked up the blue scarf with her taloned hand and held it close to her neck.
The watchers above realized their mistake at that moment. Aada had two limbs on one side and three on the other, one of which she used as an arm. But the remaining four limbs were too short to reach her neck, and with only one hand, she couldn't tie the scarf.
“Oh, I can't stand this!” Pihla pulled away and ran from the room. It was only as he heard her feet on the stairs that Väinö realized what she intended. He ran after her, not meaning to stop her, but to face the danger with her. He reached her just as she opened the door.
“Aada!”
The creature whipped around, her jaws open to show irregular sharp fangs. Pihla recoiled, stumbling backwards into Väinö, who caught her by reflex. There was a frozen moment when no one moved.
Pihla gulped audibly. “Aada. Let me help.”
Aada stared at her for several seconds before closing her jaws with a snap. Pihla stepped forward and slowly and cautiously untangled the scarf from the creature's taloned hand, still raised to the long neck. She folded it diagonally and, after a quick, unreadable glance at Väinö, reached around Aada's leathery neck to tie the scarf in a good knot that would not easily come loose.
Pihla stepped back and took Väinö's hand. Aada bent her long neck to examine the scarf, and Väinö had the odd thought that she resembled a swan at that instant. She raised her head to gaze at them.
“We'll keep the other two for you,” Pihla said, her voice shaking just a little. Aada didn't move. Väinö wondered if she understood Pihla's words. “Or you can take them yourself, of course.”
Aada turned and trotted away through the snow, head held high. She looked back, just for a moment, as they called after her.
“Merry Christmas, Aada. Merry Christmas.”
