The café was quiet — not empty, just soft. Even the coffee machine sounded like it was trying not to interrupt.
I ordered something I’d had before. But here, it tasted like something I’d forgotten.
Maybe it was the room.
Bare walls.
A fan spinning slowly overhead.
A vase with two marigolds, already leaning toward each other.
Maybe it was the echo. Not loud. Just… honest. Every footstep, every spoon. A sound that made you notice your presence.
The coffee came in a thick ceramic cup.
Not perfect. Chipped slightly on the edge.
But warm — deeply warm.
And as I sipped, I realized: Some drinks don’t wake you up. They settle you in.
Not into the day. But into yourself.