The fog curled around the edges of the cobblestone street, and the muted hum of chatter echoed outside the dimly lit alley, circling the place. A small bell could be heard amongst the breeze but it hung like a forgotten charm, merely a reminder of countless patrons that had passed in another life. The sound of the door was muffled by the rich scent of espresso and aging wood that had faded fingerprints at every corner, of curious children, of impatient young people, of the tired elderly, all had scraped their hands over the weary wood to grab a coffee before breakfast, during midday or even a few rare night owls.
The cafe was a relic from another era, though it seemed timeless in its quiet glory. It was a victorious investment, the only remaining building that had withstood the trauma of life, from wars, divorces, petty robberies and financial crises. The dark wood paneling on the walls bore the marks of decades of life as much as the entrance - rings from long-forgotten teacups, faint ink stains that told stories of writers long gone, marks on the floor of the many footsteps that had wandered through and scratches from purses that had been thrown on the tables in a morning rush. The air was thick with the weight of souls and their history, as if every wall had absorbed the tales of those that sought refuge here and every chair had wrapped themselves around every patron in an effort to placate.
Past the corner, a lonely figure sat, glancing at the window beside him, hunched slightly over an empty mug of coffee. His face was fatigued with old age, of worries that had long escaped but weighed heavy, his hands were tapping idly on the rim of the mug, calloused and rough of hard labour and his eyes were downcast, permanently tired but observant. He wasn't searching for anyone in particular, rather judging the passer-goers quietly and just gazing into the distance. A soft trickle of rain had begun, streaking the window, running down like forgotten memories.
The man did not pay attention to any of the other members of the cafe. Some rushed in, eager to escape the rain and looked rather annoyed, some came in laughing, the rain soaking them and the man knew they would probably be sick the next day but he suspected they didn't particularly care. He was envious of them, their youth and ignorance of life's hardships and would rather they not flaunt their joy in his face. Some sat at the table beside him, chanting and chugging their coffees at speedy rates so they could depart to their jobs or their loved ones. It was always one of the two. Life was labouring away to earn income or partaking in engagements with those you loved. He had neither.
The man didn't answer when the waitresses asked if he wanted another cup, if a woman brushed past him and whispered a breathy sorry in a hurry or if a curious neighbouring child loudly asked if he was okay as he had sat, unmoving for a while, before their embarrassed parents whisked him away, throwing him apologetic gazes as if their sheer presence would evoke an unnatural reaction from him. His gaze drifted from the window towards the old jukebox in the corner, where faint echoes of a jazz tune played, something from a happier life. The tune was familiar, but like the cafe, untouched and its memory slightly out of reach, only half formed.
The man visibly half smiled half grimaced at the tune. It was a faint taste of the past, something to treasure but knew he could never return to. Conversations floated throughout the cafe but the words seemed to blend in with other sounds - the soft clink of spoons in cups, the rhythmic hiss of the espresso machine, the bags placed on the seats and the footsteps of souls entering, then leaving, coming in and departing again.
Always arriving and then exiting. Over and over again.
But he stayed. Alone.