The path leading away from Nova Helix was more memory than trail—overgrown, half-swallowed by moss and brambles. The trees arched overhead like old bones, their limbs creaking in the wind, filtering the dying light into soft fragments that barely reached the forest floor. Each step Eliyas took was swallowed by the hush of fallen leaves, the rubber soles of his boots scuffing against ancient roots.
He moved like someone used to slipping through unnoticed—shoulders hunched beneath a weathered bomber jacket that had lost its shape long ago, the fabric stiff from rain and time. A hoodie hung beneath it, frayed at the cuffs, strings uneven. The air was cooler here, and he pulled the jacket closer, fingers twitching with the phantom tension of the city he'd left behind.
His thoughts flickered back to it—Nova Helix, a place too loud to be alive, too clean to be real. Glass towers and mirrored lies. In contrast, the forest breathed. It listened.
Suddenly, he noticed a structure that seemed to blend into the landscape of the forest itself
Tucked between gnarled roots and ivy-covered stone, half-swallowed by the green, sat a building that shouldn't have existed. No sign. No path. Just a quiet, worn structure with a sloped roof and timber walls that looked stitched together by time and forgetting. Vines curled up its edges like a living whisper, obscuring the frame until you were nearly on top of it.
Eliyas hesitated at the door. His hand hovered just above the handle, dirt clinging beneath his nails, ink stains still fresh on the pads of his fingers—residue from late-night sketching or fiddling with the broken tech he hoarded out of habit more than need. A scar ran through his left brow, catching the light briefly before vanishing in shadow as he stepped forward and pushed the door open.
The scent hit him first. Not just coffee, though that was there—dark and rich—but something quieter, deeper. Like rain hitting warm stone. Like memory.
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. 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.
Behind the counter stood a man—older, maybe, but not worn. Broad-shouldered beneath a black apron, sleeves rolled past his elbows, moving with the calm precision of someone unhurried by the outside world. His back was turned, steam rising in slow spirals from a kettle.
Eliyas approached with the wary quiet of someone unused to belonging.
The man spoke before he looked up. "You walked here."
It wasn't a question. It didn't need to be.
Eliyas didn't answer right away. He let his gaze roam the space—wooden floors smoothed by years of footsteps, faded portraits on the far wall, chairs that didn't match. Everything here was a little crooked, a little worn. But not broken.
"Didn't feel like being anywhere else," he murmured, finally.
The man turned. His eyes were steady, unreadable. "Then you came to the right place."
There was silence then—thick and easy. The kind that invited breath.
Eliyas sat at the counter, resting his forearms against the wood. He didn't ask what was on the menu. Didn't need to. His gloves were tucked into one pocket, fingers bare now, revealing the callouses and scuffs of someone who worked with their hands, who stayed up too late chasing ideas that didn't make sense by daylight.
He stared down at the grain of the wood, then spoke, voice low. "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."
Eliyas didn't respond, not at first. His gaze had drifted to the window again, where the forest leaned close, like it was listening too.
"I keep thinking if I walk far enough, I'll find something that makes it all... stop feeling so empty," he said, barely more than a whisper. "The noise. The work. Even when it's quiet, it's still loud."
The man didn't answer with words. He just slid a warm cup toward him, the ceramic imperfect, hand-shaped. Eliyas held it between both palms, letting the heat bleed into his skin. It was the first warmth he'd felt all week that didn't feel artificial.
They sat like that for a long time—two strangers in a room the world had forgotten. No demands. No names exchanged. Just the sound of a wind stirring through leaves outside, and the faint ticking of an unseen clock.
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. Eliyas 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.
When he finally stood to leave, the sky had slipped into deep blue. He didn't say goodbye. Just glanced once more at the man behind the counter, then stepped out into the dusk.
"Come back when you need to," he said, his voice steady, almost like a command wrapped in gentleness.
He 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?