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To her discredit, Emina really only plans for rain when the forecast gives more than a 60% chance. At least she brought her umbrella, not that it’s any match for the intermittent gusts of wind that turn the flimsy metal frame inside out.
She trudges up yet another narrow street lined with private residences and closed shops. She should have stayed in the tourist trap town next to the famed Meroë Falls, but no, she just had to explore north. In her defense, the landscape offers gorgeous views of mountains and a number of flowers that photos simply don’t do justice. Still, this is the outcome. She’s sopping wet, cold, and just a little lost. And a little miserable, to be honest. Thankfully, the universe responds to her silent pleas for a fucking break in the form of a café just around the corner. And it’s open.
Emina rushes onto the building’s porch and takes cover under the wooden overhang. She shakes her umbrella, and the black nylon weeps onto the floorboards below—similar to how she could almost cry at the thought of being warm and dry. She gives a final close-open-close of her umbrella, then grips the dull metal handle of the café’s door and enters the building.
The inside is warm, certainly a reprieve from the weather, but also warm as in welcoming. The lights have an orangish glow and the windowsills are decorated with tiny statues of cute animals and guardian deities. If she didn’t know better, Emina would think she stepped into a different world.
“Welcome,” comes a feminine voice. Emina’s eyes flit to its source: a young woman behind the counter who nearly blends in with the numerous jars, bags, and appliances behind her in spite of her striking beauty.
“Hi,” Emina says, stowing her umbrella next to a slightly larger one sitting in a nondescript bucket next to the door. She takes a seat at the counter, in one of the only two spots not subject to giant bottles or pastries immediately blocking the line of vision. It should be fine, given that there are no other customers right now.
The woman hands Emina a menu. “Please order when you are ready.”
Emina glances over the options. She hadn’t really been looking for something to eat so much as someplace to get warm, but some—most—of the items look pretty appealing after all the walking she’s done.
“How about a brownie with walnuts, and some hot matcha.”
“I will prepare your order immediately,” the woman responds. She sinks beneath the counter and pops back up with a large bowl. Her hands fly to different jars and tools, tossing and sprinkling ingredients into the bowl with practiced movements—sugar, flour, an egg, cocoa, dashes of this and drops of that, all gradually combined by an unyielding wooden spoon.
“I take it you’ve been doing this a while,” Emina says. Is this woman the small talk type? Well, that should become clear soon.
“Many years,” the woman says. “But, it seems I can stop waiting.” A vague smile appears on her lips as she folds the mixture in on itself, and the sight gives Emina pause.
“Uh—” Emina blinks out of her stupor, and the smile is gone. “Waiting?”
The woman procures a pan from behind the counter. She pours the mixture from the bowl, then scrapes the rest. “A very long time ago, I promised to wait for someone. That person likewise promised that they would find me.”
Emina is uncertain what to make of the woman’s words, but a chat beats awkward silence. “And they did. That sounds romantic.”
“Indeed it does. But there is more work to be done,” the woman says, turning away to place the pan in the brick oven. She opens the small steel door, releasing a rush of hot air that melts the numbness off of Emina’s nose and dissipates all too quickly.
“What do you mean by that?” Emina asks. Her eyes track the woman’s visage as she picks out more utensils and a tea tin. The hollow expression in and of itself is distinct, so calm and unmoving; and there is terror in that—like the surface of the sea gone still.
“The soul remembers what the mind has forgotten. Beyond the promise, we are without guidance.”
Emina is lost for comprehension, but nonetheless invested in this stranger’s voiced thoughts. She glances down at the blindingly quick back-and-forth of a whisk in a bowl, then up at the woman’s eyes. She thinks she sees a twinkle in that spellbinding green—of hope or fondness, or anything but the unforgiving cold looming just outside the café.
The woman pours the matcha into a cup and places it in front of Emina. “So, we simply begin anew.” Then, again, her stone face softens into a small smile, like a secret, an all-important whisper. “My name is Caetuna.”
Emina forgets her name. She forgets common courtesy, she forgets logic, she forgets where she is.
She remembers, indistinctly, fleetingly—
I have missed you. My God, I have missed you.
Emina remembers her name.
“Emina. It’s nice to meet you.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” Caetuna says. She shifts her attention to the oven before Emina can finish gawking or come up with anything else to say. There’s certainly no shortage of topics: the weather, tourism, the café, skincare products, uh... crossword puzzles? There’s a blank one next to the register.
Caetuna serves Emina a thick brownie on a small plate. That could be a topic on its own—that heavenly scent. It smells delicious and familiar, like a slice of a home she’s never visited.
“Thank you.” Emina takes a sip of tea first, which makes her pause before tasting the brownie. She’s no connoisseur. In most cases, she prefers coffee, but this tea is bold and refreshing, and just slightly sweet—the polar opposite of her day so far. If dreary skies, cramped trains, and a mild cold lead to this, though, she can’t complain too much.
Next is the brownie. Emina takes an eager first bite, and nearly tears up seconds later. She could blame the fact that it’s piping hot, but truthfully she’s overwhelmed. The morsel is flaky on the outside but practically melts on her tongue. It paints a picture of simple days, honest work, and humble joy. A nostalgia not her own fills her to the brim and the words pour out:
”I’m home.”
Caetuna doesn’t draw attention to the oddity of the words. She only nods, eyes shining with quiet satisfaction, and proceeds towards the sink. Emina takes a second bite, and this time the tears do well up.
Whether it takes a lifetime, a millennium, or an eternity, I will find you again. This I swear.
“Ah,” Caetuna says, cutting through the echoes of the promise. “The rain has stopped.”
Emina blinks her tears away before they can fall and takes another sip of tea to soothe her throat. “Is that so?”
“Yes. The sun has come out, too.”
In that case, why don’t we...
“Why don’t we take a quick stroll?” Caetuna goes on to suggest. “The café closes for lunch soon, and we may spot a rainbow.”
Ten seconds ago, Emina thought the last thing she wanted was to go back outside. But now, she feels the entire world calling, yearning to be seen in the light of a new sun.
“Yeah,” she says. “That sounds nice.”