The Stories of Lozenge
In the small, charming city of Garbera, tucked away between the whispering pines and foliose sugar maples, there is a quaint, old café known as Lozenge. At first glance, it was a halcyon little haven for people seeking inspiration in the backdrop of their coffee mugs, or respite nestled between layers of crusty bagels and pastries with unpredictable fillings; but as with many things, this place held stories that inked the city’s heart, its people's camaraderie, and something so profound it could only be felt in hushed whispers amidst the clinking cups and saucers.
Lozenge was run by a man named Sol, a congenial fellow with twinkling gentle eyes, and a warm, enfolding smile. He was an undeniably stout man, but never lacking in vigor. People would flock to Lozenge, not only for the brews and snacks, but also for Sol’s anecdotes, hearty laughter, and salient wisdom that filled the room as much as the aroma of freshly ground coffee beans.
Sol, how do you do it? a man once asked, his perplexed gaze shifting from his coffee to Sol.Deftly kneading the dough for a batch of cinnamon rolls, Sol flashed a roguish grin. Do what, Tom? he asked.
This... this magic you create. This feeling of home in your café? Tom iterated, fervently gesturing around the room.Sol beamed and as he turned the dough over, he shared, I believe it’s not only the place, but the love and care you put into it. This isn't just a café, this is a place of stories, Tom. Every customer that walks through that door brings a story with them. It's those stories that make Lozenge what it is.
The coffee-goers of Lozenge often noticed Sol’s fondness for pockets. His apron was always bulging with odds and ends, trinkets and baubles, compliments, and tokens of appreciation from customers. Some would say it was his talisman, spiritually imbuing Lozenge with a special energy. The magical atmosphere prevailed and in the interval of day and light, Lozenge’s facets would illumine – a kalaidescope of tales shared effervescently over cappuccinos and espressos.
Sol's predilection for people's stories and objects made him a unique custodian, a human reliquary of confidences and anecdotes. He could recount the stories of the couple who got engaged over a cup of his matcha latte, or the struggling artist who finally finished her masterpiece there, or the writer who completed his first novel in the cozy corner of the café. Amid the unassuming arrangement of tables and chairs, against the acoustic backdrop of hissing espresso machines, and the mosaic tiles that marked footprints, life unfolded in Lozenge, narrated by Sol and his eccentric collection.
One day, nestled between a crystal prism that refracted rainbows and an old, well-used pocket watch, Sol added a pretty, delicate charm – a silver-edged, amethyst geode. It was a gift from an elderly woman who had tearfully revealed that her late husband had gifted it to her during their early years of courtship. When asked why she would part with such a beautiful keepsake, she gently responded, Sol, it’s time to pass it on. You see, I’m moving to an old age home. But leaving it here, with you, it's as though I have left a piece of me in Garbera.
That day, Sol felt a pang of melancholy but also contentment. The café indeed seemed more of a sanctuary where one could leave behind a piece of oneself, or find an echo of their own story in others.
As time went by, Sol aged. His steps became less robust, his laughter subdued, but his smile remained warm and welcoming. A day came when Sol, too, had to hang his apron and pass on the reins of Lozenge to younger hands. But he left behind his precious collection. He bid his heartfelt farewell with moist eyes and a hoarse voice: Remember, this place comes alive with stories. Every person matters, their stories matter. May Lozenge forever remain not just a café, but a home.
Today, Garbera has grown. It's no longer the small town it used to be, and yet, that old café named Lozenge still stands, unchanged. The cappuccinos still froth with tales, the pastries still hold secret surprises, and the air is still rich with nostalgia. After all, it still houses stories that twine around the heart of a city, its people's camaraderie, and something so profound that it presents itself in hushed whispers amidst the clinking cups and saucers.
