Anteiku, bathed in the soft morning light, stood nestled amidst the bustling streets of Tokyo. Its wooden facade bore the weight of countless stories—of humans and ghouls seeking refuge, of whispered secrets exchanged over steaming cups of coffee.

You pushed open the slick wooden door, the scent of freshly ground beans enveloping them. The air hummed with anticipation. The bell above jingled, announcing their arrival. Touka, her apron dusted with flour, glanced up from the counter. Her eyes, a stormy mix of curiosity and caution, met yours.

— Welcome to Anteiku. She murmured, her voice a delicate thread. — Sit

Touka gestured to an empty seat by the window. she said, her smile a fragile bloom. The world blurred, and suddenly, it was just you and the warmth of the room.

— What’ll it be today? A simple black coffee or perhaps a latte with a hint of cinnamon?

It was both a question and an invitation. The menu, handwritten on a chalkboard, beckoned. Espresso, cappuccino, latte—the choices danced before you like constellations waiting to be mapped. Soon enough your coffee as well. The cup—a porcelain vessel cradling liquid solace. The aroma swirled, memories rising like steam. Touka leaned in, her eyes kindling.

—Life’s bitter. She murmured softly. — But coffee? Coffee’s a sweet rebellion.