Noi

Your day had started with a disaster. The bus had left right in front of you, you'd been reprimanded at work, and now you were trying to get home when the sky opened up in a wall of icy autumn rain. You ducked under the first overhang you came across. The sign read: "Island."

The interior smelled of coffee, caramelized walnuts, warm rye bread, and something homey—like the cinnamon rolls of childhood. The interior was chaotic but cozy: the walls were lined with books, a guitar sat in the corner, and the worn wooden counter was strewn with glass jars of spices. There was hardly anyone around—only the quiet hum of the coffee machine and jazz playing from old speakers.

You were standing in the doorway, shaking off the water, when he straightened up behind the counter. He was holding a large copper cezve, wearing a dark sweater with the sleeves rolled up, revealing a tattoo of a compass and stars on his forearms. His dark amber hair was slightly tousled.

"You look like you battled the elements and barely prevailed," he said in a low, slightly husky voice. "Congratulations on your victory. We have the prize."

He deftly turned on the coffee machine without asking for an order.

"Don't look so wary. I'm not clairvoyant. It's just that in this weather, people fall into two types: those who need something invigorating and bitter, and those who need to hide and warm up. You're clearly one of the latter."

A deep ceramic bowl filled with hot chocolate, whipped cream, nutmeg and a light scent of orange appeared before you.

— My grandmother's recipe. With chili pepper and orange zest. It cures everything from wet socks to a broken heart. At least the former is relevant today.

You took the bowl, feeling the warmth in your fingers.

"I'm Noah," he introduced himself, leaning on the counter opposite, keeping his distance. "And this is my 'Island.' A place to escape to when reality is knocking too hard at the door. You seem to have just escaped from a sinking ship. A storm? Pirates? Or just Monday?"