He walked through the door, the air filled with the scent of rich, deep coffee spiraling with hints of cardamom and cinnamon. The low hum of conversations—people murmuring, liquid courage stirring thoughts—created an inscrutable soundtrack to moments echoed by déjà vu.
Across the room, an old gramophone played a tune that seemed to wrench thoughts lodged somewhere in the ether between memory and reality. Marion sat by the window, jotting down snippets of just-beyond-recall memories in her worn leather notebook. The ink stained the paper like golden shadows.
How many Fridays had led her here? Always the same corner seat, bathed in afternoon light, nurturing a half-hope that the answer yet knew her name.
Reluctantly unwinding, she sipped her blend, tasting stories whispered by souls intertwined with centuries, retold in each fragrant draught.
Forgotten Sips