The coffee shop on the corner had always been a sanctuary for Mr. Jensen. Each morning, he would find solace in the steaming cup that formed a thin mist against the glass, only to be rippled by the passing storms of commuters.
But that day, the air held a different intensity. It hummed, perhaps, or buzzed quietly, like faulty wiring just waiting to spark a fire in a forgotten attic. Mr. Jensen’s thoughts swirled around the edges of his consciousness, whispers lost in the roar of grinding espresso beans.
A voice broke through the drone, familiar yet distorted. “We need to talk,” it said, though Mr. Jensen didn’t remember inviting such conversations. The words held weight, anchored, as if cast in iron and dropped into still waters.
There are moments when silence is louder than any voice. When a thousand unspoken words echo in the gaps between breaths. Mr. Jensen imagined they danced like shadows in a flickering candlelight, casting shapes on the walls that only he could see.
Sometimes, it’s a melody played out of tune, or a conversation where every word seems misplaced, misaligned. He often wondered if people heard the same songs he did, or if every individual rotten note was just for him, a personal symphony of dissonance.
Mr. Jensen continues his ritual in the ever-turning wheel of seasons, each sip echoing towards an uncertain tomorrow.