Nova Helix was a blur—a cacophony of towering skyscrapers and glistening, glassy roads that stretched endlessly, cutting through a dense, unnatural sprawl. The city was a beast that never slept, its pulse constant and unforgiving, like a tide that relentlessly washed over everything in its path. Yet, here, where the city's gleaming spires were reduced to faint outlines against the horizon, there was a different kind of quiet—a rare, almost forgotten stillness. It was as if this place had been untouched by the digital hum and the ever-constant motion of the modern world.
The path leading away from the chaos of Nova Helix was overgrown, winding through the forest, its ancient trees arching above like silent guardians. As Eliyas ventured further into the woods, the hum of the city faded behind him, leaving only the soft rustle of leaves and the occasional whisper of a breeze. He adjusted the collar of his bomber jacket, the fabric worn but sturdy, layered over a hoodie that had seen better days. His boots scuffed against the roots, his lean frame moving with the quiet efficiency of someone used to slipping through cracks in the world.
This was a place forgotten by time, where the artificial noise of the world couldn't reach. And here, hidden among the gnarled roots of towering oaks and the sprawling ivy, sat a café.
It wasn't much to look at from the outside. The building, though weathered, had a quiet charm—a rustic haven made of worn wood and stone, its very presence almost an afterthought. Vines crawled along the edges, weaving through the cracks in the facade like some living thing trying to reclaim what was once abandoned. There was no sign to mark its presence—no flashy logo or neon lights to beckon the weary traveler. And yet, there was something magnetic about it, an invisible force pulling Eliyas toward its door.
He stood at the threshold for a moment, feeling the weight of the world he had left behind. The bustling noise of the city now seemed like a distant memory, fading as quickly as a forgotten dream. He ran a hand through his messy black hair—brown-tinted where the light caught it—before pushing the door ajar. The cool, musty air of the forest was replaced by the warm, inviting scent of freshly brewed coffee.
Inside, the atmosphere was unlike anything he'd ever experienced. The café was small, but it felt like the room stretched endlessly in all directions, the space filled with the quiet hum of comfort and solace. Dim light filtered through the windows, casting soft shadows across the wooden floors, while the rich aroma of coffee blended with something more subtle—something ethereal that made the air feel thick, heavy with forgotten memories.
The owner stood behind the counter, his movements deliberate and slow, as though he were in no hurry, as though time itself had no hold here. His figure was shadowed by the light, his features soft but sharp, his presence steady and unyielding. He wasn't remarkable at first glance—just a man who had settled into the silence of this place—but there was something in the way he carried himself, a weight in his gaze that suggested he knew more than he was willing to share.
Eliyas approached the counter, his sharp hazel eyes scanning the space with quiet curiosity. His hands, rough and ink-stained from late-night sketches or tinkering with scavenged tech, rested lightly on the worn wood. A faint scar cut across his left eyebrow, a relic from some half-remembered scrape, barely visible unless the light hit it just right.
After a moment of hesitation, he spoke, his voice soft, almost uncertain.
"Why here?" The question hung between them, simple, yet pregnant with meaning. "Why create something like this... away from everything?"
The owner paused, his hands still on the counter, as if he had expected the question. His eyes lifted from the steaming cup he was preparing, catching Eliyas's gaze. For a brief moment, there was a flicker of something—recognition, perhaps, or a memory stirred from deep within. But it was gone as quickly as it came.
"Sometimes," the owner began, his voice low and calm, "we find peace in the places we least expect. People come and go, but it's not the place that matters. It's what you bring with you. The question is whether you leave with something more than you came with."
The words were cryptic, but they resonated in the traveler's chest, settling in their bones like a half-remembered dream. There was no urging, no demand in the owner's tone—just a quiet acceptance, as though the answers to all questions lay beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to reveal themselves.
The traveler, feeling something shift in the air, sat at the counter, watching the owner with new curiosity. They wanted to ask more, to learn about the man behind the café, but there was something in his presence that held them back. It wasn't fear—no, it was respect, a strange reverence for the solitude that surrounded him. For the peace that emanated from every corner of this place.
The hours passed in comfortable silence, the only sounds the soft clink of porcelain and the distant rustle of trees. Time seemed to bend and stretch within the walls of the café, the world outside forgotten. The traveler had never felt such calm, such peace. It was a rare luxury, this quiet—the kind that could unravel the knots in the mind, loosen the tightness in the chest.
As the last rays of daylight flickered through the window, casting long shadows across the floor, the traveler knew it was time to leave. The sun was setting, and the day's warmth was slipping away, replaced by the cool embrace of night. They rose, stretching slightly, feeling the weight of the quiet settling on their shoulders like a familiar coat. The owner looked up from his work, his gaze soft but knowing.
"Come back when you need to," he said, his voice steady, almost like a command wrapped in gentleness.
The traveler nodded, stepping toward the door. For a moment, they paused on the threshold, feeling the pull of the café—of the stillness it held. But there was no turning back. They stepped outside into the gathering dusk, the cool night air a sharp contrast to the warmth inside.
---
The next morning, Eliyas's feet led him back down the same winding path, the forest now a comforting cloak of green. His layered jacket was zipped against the morning chill, his breath visible in the crisp air. The memory of the café was vivid in his mind—its warmth, its tranquility, the way it had made the noise of the world feel so far away. He couldn't wait to return.
But as he approached the clearing where the café had stood, the air around him shifted. The trees, once so welcoming, now seemed unfamiliar. His stomach dropped. There was nothing. No building. No door. The forest stretched on in silence, untouched, as if the café had never existed.
He walked through the woods, searching, but the landscape was unyielding. The path was gone, the faint traces of yesterday wiped clean. His breath caught in his chest, a growing sense of confusion and frustration rising within him. His bandaged fingers—scraped from some recent work—brushed against the bark of a tree, as if testing its reality.
How could it be gone? How could something so real, so vivid, vanish without a trace?
He retraced his steps, feeling the weight of his search, but the café had disappeared as though it had never been there at all. The quiet of the woods now seemed oppressive, the peace replaced by a growing sense of loss. He stood at the edge of the forest, staring into the trees, unsure if he had imagined it all. But the memory the lingering peace was undeniable. The café had been real. Hadn't it?