King Cake

New Orleans.
Café du Monde.

Even late at night, it never really sleeps.

The air carries sugar, coffee, and the low hum of voices drifting through the open square. The iron tables are cool to the touch, the marble tabletops faintly sticky with powdered sugar from earlier in the evening.

Marie LeClare.
Twenty-six years old.
A happy, vivacious brunette with warm brown eyes.
French ancestry on both sides of her family.
Her family had been in New Orleans since 1860.
Born and bred in New Orleans.

This cafe wasn’t a destination for her. It was background. It was home.

A software developer by profession.
The kind who works late and thinks in systems and patterns.
The kind who finds comfort in structure—but who still needs nights like this to feel balanced again.

Late-night coffee at Café du Monde.
Cash only.

She folded a few bills onto the saucer without thinking. The ritual mattered. The continuity mattered.

Dark French roast coffee steamed in the white cup, bitter and strong, cutting through the cool February air. The smell alone was grounding. Beignets were usually part of the equation—hot, airy, buried under a snowfall of sugar—but not tonight.

It was Mardi Gras season.
Tonight was for King Cake.

Marie sat outside beneath the night sky, shoulders relaxed, hands wrapped around the warm porcelain cup. Somewhere nearby, laughter spilled out, then faded. The city breathed around her.

A waiter appeared, set down a white dessert plate, and left just as quickly.

The cake was vibrant against the porcelain.
Purple.
Green.
Yellow.

The colors were loud, unapologetic. The cinnamon scent rose immediately—sweet, warm, familiar. She took a bite and closed her eyes without realizing she’d done it.

Soft.
Rich.
Spiced just right.

It tasted like home.
It tasted like New Orleans.

She lingered with it, letting the moment stretch.

That’s when she noticed it.

A small scrap of paper, barely visible, stuck to the underside of the plate. About the size of a fortune cookie slip. Too deliberate to be trash. Too clean to be accidental.

"What is this?", she thought.

She slid the plate closer, reached underneath, and pulled it free.

The handwriting was simple. Direct.

St. Louis Cathedral.
Tonite. 12 Midnight.
Come alone.

She read it once.
Then again.

She felt strangely calm.

Not unnerved.
Not afraid.
Not even curious in the way she would have expected.

Just calm.

As if something long delayed had finally caught up to her. As if this moment had been waiting patiently, and now it had arrived.

She knew, without reasoning it through, that this was destiny.
Her destiny.

“Another cup of coffee, ma’am?” a waitress asked, appearing at her side.

Marie looked down at the note once more, then up again.

“Yes, please.”

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Aaron Rose is a software engineer and technology writer at tech-reader.blog and aaronrose.blog.