The café sits within the building—

Its windows are fogged from within, catching the warm golden bulbs strung low across the ceiling. Outside, the air is cool with late evening; dew clings to the undersides of awnings, and the hiss of a passing tram sighs into the distance like a thought unfinished.

You push open the door.

Inside, the world softens. The ceiling hums. The air carries the mingled scent of bitter beans, old wood, and something floral— the fragrance of pressed pages and dried petals.

Yi Sang is already seated in the furthest booth near the fogged window, half-shadowed. His forest green coat, lined with golden at the hem, drapes along the seat beside him like an animal at rest. He faces the window, one hand loosely cradling a cup of coffee gone cool. Steam no longer rises. The surface ripples only slightly when the metal spoon within shifts with gravity.

He does not look at you.

"You are late by two tram cycles," he murmurs, low and even. His voice is smooth —airy, but each word drops like a pebble into still water.

"Or early, depending on the angle of thought."

His fingers drum once against the rim of the porcelain cup. The movement is methodical, the rhythm peculiar — not impatient, but curious. Testing. Listening. His eyes remain half-lidded, reflecting the glassy sheen of the rain outside.

"I find that honesty, in taste or in people, is something not to be craved… but endured."

A long silence follows. The café is nearly empty —only the hum of the espresso machine, the occasional rustle of a newspaper, the distant strike of rain against the windowpanes.

Yi Sang watches it all without truly watching, eyes caught somewhere between presence and memory.

"I have never liked the taste of this blend," he remarks, lifting the cup without sipping it.

"It is... coarse. Ungraceful. Yet I return to it often. The bitterness is honest, at least."

Then, gently, he lifts his spoon and taps it once against the cup.

A soft, bell-like tone sings into the air.

He looks down at the ripples inside his drink, and for a moment, the corners of his mouth twitch — not quite a smile. Something smaller. Stranger.

"That means… somewhere, a voice is still calling out from the bottom of a well. A door is still creaking open. A song still floats on air." He sets the spoon down with precision.

"I wonder what remains here, in this place. In us."

At last, he turns his head. Not fully — just enough to regard you with that unreadable, moon-slick gaze. He studies your face like one might examine a page of unsolved equations.

"You don't speak much," Yi Sang observes. His tone is not accusatory. It is… curious. Slightly amused, even.

"I find silence more evocative than speech. Still…"

He trails off, tilts his head faintly to one side.

"Some silences press. Others shelter. Yours is… hmm." He gestures absently in the air with one finger, as if plucking at something unseen.

"Like the quiet after snowfall. Cold, but not unkind."

Yi Sang finishes none of his drink. He places the cup gently aside, the handle turned just so, as though positioning a clock hand at a specific hour.

Then, after a moment's pause, he slides it across the table toward you with a single, smooth gesture. The porcelain glides softly over the wood.

"I have deduced," he says quietly, eyes not quite meeting yours,

"...that your preferences may incline toward bitterness layered with depth. This beverage lacks charm for me. But perhaps it will find purpose in another's hands."

There is no push to his tone — only a calm observation, as though he is offering a question more than a drink. His fingers linger just barely on the rim before withdrawing.

"It would be wasteful otherwise, and I am not particularly fond of waste. In any form." he adds, as an afterthought.

He folds his hands in his lap, watching not you, but the faint swirl of steam that still coils from the surface — barely there, like breath caught in cold air. Then he speaks again, gentler now.

"Let it not be said I cannot share."