Dear one, 

They don’t give you a menu.

Not really.

There are words written on the chalkboard—tea, coffee, something called infusions—but no prices, no descriptions.

“Just tell me what you need,” the woman says.

Not what you’d like.

What you need.

At the corner table, a man cups his hands around a mug like it might steady him. Across from him, someone listens with impossible patience, as though time has been… adjusted.

You find yourself answering before you’ve decided.

“Something warm,” you say.

The woman nods.

“They always do, the first time.”

P.S. Dear reader, what would you order if you came across the Celestial Cafe today?