The Coffee Shop That Never Closed
It was raining when I first found the place.
New York rain — not gentle, not poetic — just cold and uninviting, the kind that makes the whole city look like it’s crying under its own weight. I had been walking for hours, trying to forget something I could never remember clearly. That’s when I saw it — a tiny coffee shop tucked between two old brick buildings on a street I swear didn’t exist the day before.
The sign read: “The Coffee Shop That Never Closed.”
Inside, the light was warm and golden, like it had been waiting just for me. The air smelled of roasted beans and rain-soaked pavement. A woman behind the counter looked up and smiled — not the kind of smile you give to strangers, but the kind you give to someone you’ve been expecting.
“Rough night?” she asked.
I nodded.
She poured coffee into a cup that looked older than the city itself and slid it across the counter.
I took a sip. It wasn’t like any coffee I’d ever had — it tasted like memory.
For a moment, I was back home, hearing laughter from another life. Then it shifted — I saw faces I’d forgotten, people I’d lost, words I never said. The taste was bittersweet, like regret dressed as comfort.
A man sitting in the corner caught my eye. He wore a gray coat, his hands trembling slightly as he stared into his cup. “They say,” he said softly, “that every person who comes here has something unfinished.”
I looked around. The place was full now — people reading old letters, whispering to no one, some crying quietly into their cups.
“Is this… real?” I asked the woman behind the counter.
She smiled again — that same knowing smile. “As real as what you’re ready to face.”
When I looked back, the man in the corner was gone. The room felt lighter, emptier, like something had been released.
I left a few dollars on the counter — she didn’t take them.
“Come back anytime,” she said. “We never close.”
When I stepped outside, the street was empty again.
The sign was gone.
Only the faint smell of coffee lingered in the rain.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel lost.
About the Creator
Echoes of the Soul
Philosopher at heart. Traveler by choice. I write about life’s big questions, the wisdom of cultures, and the soul’s journey. Inspired by Islamic teachings and the world around me
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The Man Who Waited by the Bridge
It always starts with rain. Berlin has a strange relationship with it — the way the droplets cling to iron bridges and roll down the glass facades of cafés. On nights like this, the city feels suspended between memory and dream.
By Echoes of the Soul3 months ago in Art
Comments (1)
The piece feels like when life helps you reset. It’s always the small moments that don’t shout, but echo to the soul. That’s how your piece feels… gentle, yet meaningful. Was actually great to read. Slowed down time. And that's unique.