It was a Tuesday, like any other. Sarah walked down the street, wrapped in her usual thoughts, her feet moving on autopilot past familiar storefronts. The city hummed with its predictable rhythm—cars rolling by, distant voices blending into the background, the occasional rustling of leaves as the wind danced through the narrow alleyways.
Then, something caught her eye.
Tucked between a florist and a secondhand record store was a small café she had never noticed before. Bookworms Café.
The name alone gave her pause. Simple. Unpretentious. It exuded a quiet charm, as if it had always been there, waiting to be noticed. The golden glow spilling from its windows contrasted with the crisp, cool air outside, promising warmth and a kind of refuge she didn't know she needed. She hesitated at the threshold, staring at the wooden sign swinging gently above the door. There was something oddly magnetic about the place. Maybe it was the name. Maybe it was the way it felt tucked away from the world.
Without giving it too much thought, Sarah stepped inside.
A bell above the door chimed softly, announcing her arrival. Instantly, she was greeted by the scent of freshly ground coffee, mingling with the faintest hint of old books. Shelves lined the walls, filled with an eclectic mix of novels, memoirs, and well-worn classics. In one corner, a small reading nook boasted mismatched armchairs, bathed in the soft glow of a floor lamp. The air carried a subtle melody—jazzy, slow, unobtrusive.
At the counter, a lone barista sat hunched over a book, utterly absorbed. His apron was slightly askew, his dark hair a tousled mess that suggested he either hadn't noticed or didn't care. Sarah caught a glimpse of the title he was engrossed in—Meditations by Marcus Aurelius. Not exactly light reading.
She approached the counter, uncertain whether to interrupt. He hadn't so much as glanced up.
Clearing her throat, she said, "Hi, I'll have a cappuccino, please."
The barista barely reacted. His fingers continued flipping through pages with unhurried ease. "Sure," he muttered, his voice low and even.
He shut the book with one hand, moving to the espresso machine with the kind of fluidity that suggested muscle memory more than conscious effort. Each motion—grinding the beans, tamping the grounds, steaming the milk—was executed with effortless precision, as if he had made thousands of cappuccinos without a second thought.
Sarah watched, intrigued. There was something fascinating about his mix of focus and detachment, as if making coffee was less a job and more a rhythm he naturally fell into. The quiet hum of the milk frother, the soft clink of porcelain, the rich aroma filling the air—it was hypnotic.
Finally, he slid the cappuccino toward her, still without a glance. It was flawless—smooth, frothy, the perfect shade of golden brown.
She took a tentative sip. The balance was perfect, the foam light and velvety. She exhaled, savoring the comfort it brought.
"You really know your stuff," she remarked, offering a small smile.
The barista—Ryu, according to his name tag—glanced up briefly, the ghost of a smile crossing his lips. "Thanks."
And that was it. No small talk, no attempt to prolong the conversation. Just an acknowledgment before he returned to his book, as if she had already faded into the background.
Oddly enough, Sarah didn't mind. Some places, some people, didn't demand conversation. They just existed, quiet and steady. And that, in itself, was comforting.
She lingered a moment longer before gathering her things. "Thanks," she said again.
Ryu responded with a barely audible mmhm, his gaze never leaving the pages.
Stepping back onto the street, Sarah hesitated before walking away. She glanced at the café once more, the golden light spilling onto the sidewalk, the scent of coffee lingering on her senses.
She smiled to herself.
Maybe she'd come back.