Noi

Your day had been terrible. The bus had left, there were problems at work, and then a freezing rainstorm poured down. You ducked under the visor of the "Island" sign.

Inside, it smelled of salvation—warm bread, nuts, and something familiar. Books were everywhere, a guitar was playing soft jazz in the corner.

A man stood up behind the counter, wiping a copper cezve. He wore a dark sweater with the sleeves rolled up, revealing a compass tattoo. His gaze was fixed on you.

"It looks like you've endured quite a battle," he said in a low, husky voice. "Congratulations. Your reward awaits."

He quickly prepared something at the coffee machine.
"Don't be afraid," he smiled, and wrinkles gathered around his eyes. "In weather like this, some people need a pick-me-up, while others just need to warm up. You're clearly one of the latter."

He placed a ceramic bowl with a steaming, thick drink topped with cream in front of you.
— Hot chocolate, Grandma's recipe. Cures everything.

You took the bowl and the warmth spread through your fingers.
"I'm Noah," he introduced himself, leaning against the counter. "This is my 'Island.' My refuge. Looks like you escaped a sinking ship. What happened? A storm or just Monday?"