The early morning sun awakens Elaric in his new surroundings. Light filters through the linen curtains, dancing across the cedar-paneled floor with a magical twinkle. He lay still for a long moment, letting the quiet sink in.The room smelled faintly of lavender and cinnamon, as if yesterday had steeped itself into the walls. He stretched beneath the weight of handmade quilts, each patch holding someone else’s memories. They reminded him of his grandmother. The scent of lavender soap and cinnamon lingered in the air, rooting him a reality he still half-doubted. For a moment, he wasn’t sure if he’d awakened, or drifted further into a dream. The upstairs room was hushed aside from the gentle tick of a mantle clock whose hands kept Alderidge’s time, not Boston’s. The journal he’d carried was perched on the nightstand, the flyer tucked inside like a secret. Elaric reaches over and touches the cover just to confirm: not a dream. He sits up slowly to take in the room’s quiet intimacy. He blinks against the sunlight, brushing away the fog of sleep, remembering that he’s no longer in Boston. The loft is modest, but thoughtful, its open plan inviting rather than sparse. An antique dresser sits along the wall to his right, while a matching writing desk overlooks the quiet street below. Across from the bedroom stands a compact kitchenette. Open shelves are lined with tea tins and displayed carefully chosen tea sets; ceramic mugs hanging below the cabinets. He exhales softly and rises, still not entirely certain where grief ends and belonging begins. Elaric makes his way over to the window speckled with rain, taking in the view and the grey sky that matches his emotion, and almost missing the steaming cup of coffee he hadn’t made. He lifts the mug and takes a hesitant sip. The flavor dances across his tongue: warm cinnamon, delicate vanilla, and something more elusive – a hint beneath memory, like a word he almost recognized. The warmth mingled with thoughts of his mother, of Aunt Sally, and of the box atop their old closet shelf. He watches the fog dissolving against the rooftops. The mist was curling toward the alley beside the cafe, brushing past the brickwork and flower boxes that cling to windowsills. He sets the coffee cup down to take in his surroundings. The silence around him feels different somehow. The room is still quiet, but the air is charged with a certain electricity that wasn’t there before. Every surface, every shadow in the loft seems to lean toward him, as if listening, awaiting his next move. He looks back toward the staircase waiting beneath a low beam, half shadowed from the morning light.
Elaric gets dressed quickly, deciding that now is as good a time as ever to go downstairs to the cafe. The loft shifts in the corner of his vision as Elaric moves with quiet resolve. The morning has shed its softness, and the cafe below feels quietly alert, as though sensing his movements above. He pauses at the top of the stairs, noticing the mantle clock still ticking in Alderidge’s rhythm. The air here smells of warm bread and something richer – earthy rosemary, pulled in on a spring breeze. Elaric puzzles over this…it’s still winter.
He places his hand on the banister, feeling the slight give of old pine beneath his palm. A faint groan answers, as if the building recognizes his presence, whispering its welcome. Treading lightly, he descends into darkness, mindful of the creak beneath his boots. At the base of the stairs, the morning light pools in the small hallway, while beyond the main counter, the cafe is revealing itself anew. Tables have been rearranges, in preparation for the day ahead. A small leather bound ledger rests beside the till, along with a plate of fresh pastries. The cafe holds its breath as Elaric places his hand on the counter’s edge, ready to learn what Alderidge remembers next.
As he’s taking in his surroundings, a woman appears from the office behind him. “Ah, you’re back. Have you found your quarters suitable?“ the older lady inquires of Elaric. “It’s been quite a journey to bring you here.”
He nods, still settling from the climb down. “Yes…it’s perfect, thank you.”
She directs him to the old armoire. He opens it. Inside are several aprons – old-fashioned, well cared for, maybe each slightly different – but one in unmistakably his. Not because his name is embroidered on it, something deeper. When he lifts out the apron, something about it feels familiar – as if he’s worn this apron a thousand times. There’s a coffee stain on the front pocket, and a small tear in the softened canvas that he somehow remembers mending himself. The older woman glances in Elaric’s direction, “That one should fit,” she tells him plainly, as she begins preparations for opening.
Watching her move about the cafe, Elaric realizes something – Wait. Are we opening? His mind is racing…yesterday this place was abandoned. I don’t know the menu. I don’t know the register. I don’t even technically know if I’m supposed to be here. He reluctantly puts on the apron; it somehow fits him perfectly, no adjusting needed.
She gives him his first job, “Coffee.”
“What kind?”
“You’re the barista.” She smiles at him.
He starts looking for beans, filters, mugs – everything is exactly where his instincts tell him it should be. He starts working the machinery as the first customer comes in. As they approach the counter, they pause, seeing Elaric behind the counter. “Well,” they say. “About time.” He turns around placing a finished mug of coffee on the counter for the man who just walked in.
“What can I get you?” Elaric greets the customer.
“This will do” says the man, and pays without ordering, which Elaric finds odd. Taking a sip, the customer states, “This is exactly what I needed.” Then with a wink, “You always know.” Elaric watches as the man takes a seat at a table in the front of the shop.
