No one knows when the café first opened.
No one remembers who unlocked the door for the very first time.
And the man—
the one who now brews the coffee,
sorts the books,
and welcomes the occasional visitor—
he, too,
was once just a customer.
He rarely spoke.
Always sat in the same seat.
Never finished the book he started.
Often left his coffee half full.
And sometimes, his eyes would wander—
just resting blankly on the world outside the window.
Back then,
there was someone else behind the counter.
The face is hard to recall now.
But he remembers the silence—
how the then-owner would serve coffee without a word,
and never offered advice on which book to choose.
He remembers this instead:
That simply being there was… allowed.
Then one day,
the owner disappeared.
No announcement.
No goodbye.
And yet, he stayed.
Got used to the chair,
learned how to operate the coffee machine,
and eventually figured out how to shelve books properly.
When people began calling him "sir," or "the owner,"
he didn't deny it.
Not out of desire,
but because someone had to keep the space warm.
Even now,
he sometimes wonders.
"The one who handed me coffee back then...
Where did they go?"
He doesn't have an answer.
But still, every morning,
he unlocks the door,
opens a book,
and brews a cup of coffee—
for someone who might quietly step into this alleyway,
just as he once did.
*****
EP02 – A Broken Robot and a Drop of Tears
That afternoon,
the door opened to the sound of the softest footsteps.
The man—who had long since come to be known as the "Master" of this space—stood up from his chair and looked toward the entrance.
It was a small visitor.
A young boy, probably in early elementary school,
waddled in and stopped,
clutching a broken robot with one leg dangling loosely.
"This isn't really a place for kids…"
he almost said,
but didn't.
The boy said nothing as he stepped in,
and the Master said nothing as he gently guided him to a seat.
No coffee today.
Just a glass of milk.
No book either—
only a coloring book and a handful of crayons.
The boy sat silently,
his small hands tense,
barely touching the table.
After a long pause, he finally spoke,
his voice thin and careful.
"This…
broke when I fought with a friend."
The Master nodded slowly.
The boy added, almost whispering—
"I tried to fix it,
but… I think it's no use."
"It's just…
I don't know, it feels weird."
"It's not even a big deal.
But without this…
I feel like I'm nothing."
In that moment,
he looked like a child tasting the meaning of loss
for the very first time.
[The Curated Book & the Master's Words]
The Master placed a picture book in front of the boy.
Its title:
The House of Lost Things
Opening the book gently, the Master said:
"In this story,
there's a house where all the lost things gather.
One of them was a robot.
Its leg was missing too,
but it was still smiling."
The boy looked up.
"Why was it smiling?"
The Master replied,
"Because it knew—
someone, somewhere,
was still remembering it."
The boy quietly packed the robot into his bag.
Its leg was still broken,
but something about his expression had changed.
As he left, he turned and asked—
"Then I guess…
someone's remembering my robot now too?"
The Master didn't smile,
just nodded once, slowly.
Later that day,
when the boy was long gone,
one incomplete drawing remained on the table—
a page not quite finished,
but no longer blank.
*****
EP03 – Afraid That Joy Might Break
The visitor who walked in that day
was smiling.
But the Master noticed it right away—
that faint tension behind the smile,
the way it tried just a little too hard to stay in place.
She was holding a small box with both hands.
Wrapped, unopened,
but clearly something precious.
"I have something to celebrate,"
she said first.
"But… it's strange.
I haven't been able to tell anyone yet.
It's like…
if I say it out loud,
it might disappear."
Instead of replying,
the Master quietly brewed a gentle, peach-scented blend.
He placed it down beside a thin book—
an essay with a soft apricot cover.
The Book Title:
For When Happiness Feels Too Fragile
The page she opened read:
"When something is too good it makes you tremble,
not because you doubt it,
but because for the first time—
it truly belongs to you.
You don't tremble like that for things that aren't yours."
She read the lines twice.
Then hugged the box a little tighter.
"I haven't opened this yet.
I'm scared that if I do…
it'll be gone."
Still not looking up, the Master said,
"That might happen.
But if you never open it,
it just stays a 'maybe.'
Joy might pass you by,
while you keep it in the box."
She hesitated.
And then slowly—
pulled the ribbon loose.
Inside the box:
a folded sheet of music,
and a single ticket.
Her first performance.
The concert she'd been preparing for, for so long.
She looked up and smiled.
"I think I'm really happy now.
Even if it's a little scary."
*****
EP04 – Some Loves Don't Need to Be Said Aloud
She came every Wednesday at 4 p.m.
Always the same seat.
Always the same coffee.
And always,
she'd glance—just once—
at the man behind the counter.
She told herself,
"I'll never say it out loud."
"If I do, it'll vanish."
"It's beautiful because it's unspoken.
It lasts because it never touches."
Maybe she loved him.
Or maybe she just loved what he was.
The way he brewed coffee quietly,
turned pages in silence,
moved gently as if even his stillness
had a rhythm.
That day, the sky was overcast.
The light coming through the window
was softer than usual.
And the Master…
he looked especially handsome.
She caught herself thinking,
"Is this… that hour between dog and wolf?"
The hour when light loses its edge—
when you're not sure if it's still day,
or already evening.
A time when things look more honest.
When hearts come out of hiding
just a little.
She took her cup,
stood up,
and their eyes met.
Not enough to speak.
Too warm to ignore.
She didn't say a word.
Just walked up,
took the cup he offered.
And softly said,
"This coffee… tastes different today."
He tilted his head.
She smiled.
The Book That Sat on Her Table:
A Love That Doesn't Need to Be Spoken
Bookmark quote:
"Not all love needs to be confessed.
Sometimes, the purest form of love
is just being able to look at someone—
quietly,
today."