Scent of the past
The sound of the broken coffee machine was my welcome—again—as if it wanted to remind me that this place had no intention of making my life easy.
—Great… —I muttered, giving it a little tap, convinced it might come back to life by some kind of magic. Of course, nothing happened.
My grandmother’s café smelled of old dust mixed with cinnamon, and the floor creaked under my steps as though it wanted to complain along with me. The walls were covered with old photos and crooked shelves; they seemed to hold secrets I had never cared about, though now they felt uncomfortably close. It was beautiful and cozy, yes—but I never asked for any of this. In fact, it was forced on me. My father, with his serious face, handed me the keys and told me to take charge, leaving no room for argument.
I dropped into one of the corner chairs, watching the afternoon light filter through the yellowed curtains. Outside, the town moved at the same slow pace, as if time itself had fallen asleep.
I’ve hated aesthetic-vintage cafés ever since Marcus broke my heart in one. Months of giving him everything, only to find out he had been lying to me for weeks. It’s always the same: they talk to you like you’re the problem, and only confess the truth when you stumble upon the other phone—filled with hundreds of messages I can’t even repeat without wanting to throw up.
But beyond that, this place brought back memories. I had only been in charge for a week, and every single day felt like opening a box of memories I thought I had buried.
Then the doorbell rang, pulling me out of my thoughts. I figured it was another neighbor ready to criticize the décor, but it wasn’t. A guy walked in without hesitation, sat down at the table by the window, and pulled out a book, a notebook, and a pen. He didn’t even look at me, which was strange enough, since around here everyone notices who comes and goes—and even more when you don’t greet people like you’re family.
—Do you want something? —I asked, dragging the words out more out of duty than interest.
—A black tea, please —he answered, in a calm, steady voice, almost like he had been ordering it from me his whole life.
I scribbled it into a wrinkled notebook I’d found on the counter, then rummaged through boxes until I located the tea. While I prepared it, I couldn’t help glancing at him. He seemed about my age, maybe a little older, dark hair falling across his forehead, and with that kind of expression that made him look at home anywhere he sat. He was so focused on his things he didn’t even notice my failed attempts to revive the coffee machine.
There was something unusual about him—not in a bad way, but in that quiet aura he carried, like he was immune to the dust, the noise, even my irritated face. I served the tea without a word and stepped back.
As I waited for him to try it, I leaned against the counter, distracted, and without realizing it, I began to drift into memories.
As a kid, I used to run between these very tables, hiding behind chairs while my grandmother laughed and pretended to look for me. I remember his hands—always warm, always smelling of freshly ground coffee—and the way he let me taste a sip of frothed milk like it was the greatest prize. When the place was full, I would carry glasses of water to the tables, convinced I was doing the most important job in the world. And at the end of the day, when we closed, we’d sit by the window and share a slice of leftover cake, watching the people pass by.
All of that felt so far away now, as though it hadn’t been me who lived it, but some other boy—happier, freer, unburdened by the expectations of a father who was never satisfied.
—Is it good? —the customer’s voice pulled me back.
I realized I had been staring at him far too long, following him with my eyes without meaning to. He was looking back, curious, as if he had noticed my distraction. A flush of heat crept up my neck.
—Ah… yeah, sorry —I stammered, quickly turning to the broken coffee machine, pretending I had something important to check—. I just thought maybe the tea was too strong.
I don’t know if he believed me, but I heard him laugh softly, and that light laugh lingered in the air longer than it should have.
After that, I kept myself busy with anything I could find: cleaning cups, straightening napkins, even trying to fix the coffee machine though I knew it was beyond saving. Any excuse was enough to avoid meeting his eyes again. Still, every now and then I felt that strange tickle at the back of my neck, like he was watching me from the corner of his eye, though he pretended to be lost in his notebook.
Time passed faster than I expected. When I looked up again, the sun was already slipping behind the rooftops, and golden light poured through the window. He closed his book with deliberate calm and stood. Before leaving, he looked at me once more and smiled—not a wide grin, but a quiet curve of his lips, as though thanking me for something I couldn’t name.
The doorbell chimed behind him, and suddenly the café was silent. I found myself smiling alone, like an idiot, without knowing why it mattered so much that he had smiled at me.
I turned off the lights one by one, letting the place sink into shadows. As I walked among the tables, my hand brushed the wooden backs of the chairs, and another memory came to me—falling asleep in one of those very chairs as a boy while my grandmother counted the day’s earnings. Now it was me who had to count the register, though there was barely enough money to prove the café was breathing.
I leaned against the door before locking it, gazing out at the empty street. I had never imagined I’d end up trapped in such a small town, much less running a forgotten café.
On the way home, I remembered how my father had run the place for six months—just long enough to convince the whole town it was still in good hands. Then, as always, he decided on his own that I “needed to take real responsibility” and handed me the keys, complete with strict instructions: schedules, suppliers, accounts, everything written down in a notebook that read more like a military manual than a business guide. At least he hadn’t left me entirely alone. I had two employees: one who ran errands, and another “jack-of-all-trades” named Sean, who received deliveries, cleaned, and even fixed things when they broke. I paid them wages that were almost symbolic, but enough for the little they did. After covering bills, taxes, and everything else, I still had a decent margin left for myself—which wasn’t bad for a place I thought would be a total ruin.
When I finally reached home, I sighed. Another night of sleep, and then another day of the same routine. And yet—I didn’t say it out loud—but already, I was hoping tomorrow he would be there again, sitting at the same table by the window.
