The Coffee Shop

Nestled in the bustling confines of the city, lies an unassuming coffee shop, a haven of calm in the insistent buzzing of a metropolitan city alive with the sounds and smells of life.

Tucked away in the corner of a street, and surrounded by some of my other haunts (such as the planetarium), it remains inconspicuous and rather forgettable—that is, until you enter it.

At first glance, one notices the lighting.
Walnut floors, plush threadbare armchairs, and the lovely brown and green hues of its interior are bathed in a warm, buttery light.

The music, while tasteful, is lowered to a comfortable background; and a toasty smell of coffee fills the air.

I can only compare it to a Hobbit-hole—small without being claustrophobic, and unbelievably cosy; it radiates the homely warmth of a fireplace without housing one.
It is indeed, the sort of place a congregation of weary travellers in a fantastical tale might stop to rest and shelter themselves from the pounding rain.

Nestled in a corner, one can content themselves to simply sit and observe; the serenity of the shop belying the whirring minds of patrons travelling to distant lands of legend and intrigue through their books, and capturing the intricacies of their surroundings through art.

A silence, leaden with unwritten poetry and literature to be—the vivid and abstract hues of future Rembrandts—and the nebulous wanderings of minds deep in thought, permeates the very fibres of the shop.