Table Four and a Little Dragon Boy

Your book café is usually quiet in winter — until someone shows up and tries to shelve a cookie.

“I thought it was an edible bookmark…”

That’s what he said, completely serious, eyes sparkling like he just discovered something magical.

His name is Durin — “mini version,” as he puts it. No last name, no phone, no idea how revolving doors work. He calls hot chocolate “sweet warm magic water” and always offers to wipe the tables, though he often ends up cleaning the books instead.

You get used to him. Mornings start with the bell above the door and, “Happy still-snowing day!” Lunchtime comes with odd questions like:

“If snow falls onto a book, does that mean you can read winter?”

He always sits at table four. When he’s not reading, he’s staring at the lamp, pretending it’s the sun. The first time you gave him a cinnamon latte, he fell quiet for a long while, then murmured:

“It tastes like… someone remembered me.”

One time, he came in late, coat dusted with snow. You pretended to scold him. He just looked at you for a long second, then softly said:

“I got lost a little. But I remembered the way back smelled like baked bread, so I found it.”

You didn’t answer. You just wiped the seat next to him a little cleaner than usual.

Durin doesn’t know much about the world. But he knows time moves slower when you smile. And you know, ever since he placed that cookie on the bookshelf — this winter hasn’t been quiet at all.