Eclipse,
Everywhere she looks is bleak and unwelcoming, very much in contrast to the bright digital billboards around her flashing the words “Welcome Home!”
Violet clutches her luggage tighter as she sits down in a chair in the airport’s waiting area, deciding that she’d grab a few moments of rest before her flight is called. As she observes the surge of people rushing around her, it feels as if she is stuck in time—static in the middle of the current of blurred faces moving on with their lives.
As she tears her gaze from the influx of travelers, her eyes land on a small red envelope placed right next to her. On the back, the words “Asahi Café” are printed in a clean script with a little drawing of a sunrise beside them.
Violet probably shouldn’t pick it up as it could’ve been someone else’s. But something in her gut tells her that she has to open it and read its contents. She’ll just return the envelope if there is something important written inside. It’s not like she’s going to lose anything—she’s leaving home and leaving everything behind anyway.
Dear whomever:
By the time you read this, I’ll probably be away on a plane travelling somewhere far from where I last left this letter. You’re lucky for actually opening this red envelope; most people would just leave it be or throw it away. As a gift, let me tell you my story.
I used to own this quaint little café called Asahi Café right in the middle of town. Asahi means “morning” or “sunlight” in Japanese, so I decorated my café as such. It was warm and welcoming, the orange and yellow tones made everyone who came to the café feel as if the sun was hugging them from the inside.
The drinks, too, revolved around that theme. Many of our customers enjoyed our drinks because they said that they were special. When I asked about this, they told me that drinking our Sunlight lattes was the feeling of serenity in seeing the sun rise every morning, the quiet moments of peace before the entire world woke up. Our Midnight coffees were the many sleepless nights of feeling the cool breeze tickle their skin as they stared at the shining stars above.
Our special, though, was the Sunset juice. It was an all-time favorite of our customers. In all honesty, in spite of being the owner, I never understood the hype about it. They said that despite the drink being iced, it warmed them inside in a way that would remind them of being wrapped in a hug—homey, cozy, and snug. For some, drinking Sunset juice was like walking home and seeing the sky—pinks, purples, oranges, and reds, all blended together in the vast expanse above. It was the fulfilment that made their hearts burst and made them think that they were so lucky to be alive right at those moments.
Many have told me that my café had a “magical air” around it. I didn’t really get it. But I’m glad that I gave people a sanctuary from the unrelenting and cruel world.
I served many customers in Asahi—from young, loud, obnoxious children who greatly enjoyed our sweet pastries and hung out at the café while their moms chitchatted at another table enjoying their lattes, to quiet, stressed-out, yet hopeful teenagers who would type away on their laptops all day, trying to catch up on their schoolwork.
I’ve learned their stories—of heartbreak and love, of feeling lost and being found, of being alone yet having enough company, and of being a part of a crowd yet feeling too lonesome. I’m glad that Asahi worked its magic somehow, and made this quaint little café a place for them to call home. How do I know this? Well, I saw the prominent change in my customers once they entered the store. Sometimes it was the small bounce in their steps as they walked to the cashier, or the way their eyes sparkled when they ordered a drink. Most times it was the way their smiles widened as they conversed with their friends while hanging out at the café, or just the way that they looked: like they weren’t carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders—like they could finally breathe and be at home.
The thing is, though, while Asahi was home to these people, it was never that to me. I suppose it’s because "home" is used so broadly in a sense that most of the time, we forget what it really means. People confuse it with this tangible four-walled place that they sleep in and call a house—or in this case, Asahi Café.
Maybe seeing my customers treat Asahi as their home was what made me realize that home isn’t really a place, or a drink, or a spot in the café. It’s not a place that’s open from Mondays to Sundays 6am to 12am, nor is it a space that one can simply leave and come back to whenever they feel like it. I guess that was my mistake; I saw Asahi simply as Asahi Café and not Asahi Café—a home for those who needed it.
I now realize that home is a feeling. It’s the feeling of warmth that spreads throughout the tired office worker’s body whenever they get to relax in the café’s quiet corners after a rigorous shift. It’s the nervousness and excitement rushing through the veins of those two teenagers on their first date, whispering in hushed tones and looking at each other with stars in their eyes. It’s the feeling of security that blankets the sleeping child as his mother sips her third coffee of the day. It’s the blazing heat from that group of friends whose boisterous laughter and chatter fill the café with a sense of unity and friendship.
Anyway, I’m glad Asahi was a home for them. It just wasn’t that for me. That’s why I left: I needed to find my home too. To feel the warmth that my customers felt while sipping our house special. To feel the magic of home. And maybe then, I’ll return to taste our drinks, so I’ll finally find out what all the hype was about. Or I’ll open up a branch some five thousand miles from here. Wherever it may be, I’m sure I’ll eventually find home.
But for now, here I am, writing a letter and hoping that you also find your way home, because I know that you’re lost too. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have picked up this envelope in a busy airport. I hope you find it—your Asahi café. But if not, try finding a branch! Maybe it’ll show you home. Safe travels!
From
Asahi Café’s past owner
Ps. Don’t worry about the café! I left it to my best friend. I know that it’s home to her too.
Violet carefully folds the letter and slides it back into its faded red envelope. It’s been almost three years since she picked it up at the airport some five thousand miles from where she’s currently standing. She grips her bag tightly as she looks at the sign on the window. Violet recounts all the years of finding and all the research that she did. She didn’t find much except that it was a quaint little café in her old town.
Up till now, Violet was convinced that Asahi Café didn’t actually exist. After all, she lived in that town for at least eighteen years. Surely, she would’ve seen or heard of the café. Perhaps it was a magical place meant only for people who could feel home. But then, the letter said that the owner themself couldn’t feel home. It baffled—and still baffles—her, so she decided to push it to the back of her mind and just focus on travelling to look for home. Through those three years of leaving what she was once familiar with, the letter was a constant reminder for her: it said that she was lost. And maybe she was. At first, Violet wasn’t all too sure of what she had to search for. But thanks to the letter, she realized that she too was looking for home. And if the café was a magical place meant for those who felt home, then, it would show up eventually. She just needed to find her home first.
Now, she’s here, after three years of searching. After countless early morning dawns to feel the serenity of seeing the sun rise, many sleepless nights of feeling the cool midnight breeze tickle her skin as she stared at the shining stars above, and the numerous days of walking home and seeing the sky--pinks, purples, oranges, and reds, all blended together in the vast expanse above—she’s finally face to face with the place that served as a home for so many people.
Asahi Café. Open Mondays to Sundays 6am to 12am.
She takes a deep breath and steps inside.
Instantly, warm air greets her. The café has orange and yellow tones that make Violet feel as if the sun is hugging her from the inside. Her small, cautious steps towards the counter have a little bounce as Violet recalls her journey.
Throughout those years, she felt the warmth that spread throughout her tired body as she hugged her dog after a rigorous shift. She felt the nervousness and excitement rushing through her veins as she sat across her date, whispering in hushed tones, both of them with stars in their eyes. She felt the blanket of security as she wrapped her jacket tighter while she walked around campus on particularly cold nights. She felt the blazing heat from her group of friends whose boisterous laughter and chatter filled every corner of her dorm with a sense of unity and friendship.
Everywhere she looks is bright and welcoming, very much in contrast to the bleak surroundings before.
As she reaches the counter, she holds the envelope a bit tighter. Her eyes glisten with unshed tears as she decides what to order.
That’s when it hits her—the reason why she didn’t know that there was an Asahi Café in her hometown was because she didn’t feel home yet. Asahi Café isn’t magical. It’s a normal café that she once passed by countless times, but failed to see because she was too lost. But for those who have felt home, it has always been there as one of those places that sheltered them from the harsh world and brought the feeling of home a thousandfold. That was the reason why the owner also didn’t see and understand Asahi’s magic. Because they saw it simply as a café when in reality, Asahi is a medium to remind people of the feeling of home.
And now that Violet has experienced what it’s like to feel home through her three years of travelling, she’s finally found it. Asahi Café.
Violet asks the person behind the counter if she can see the owner, but he just shakes his head and tells her that the previous owner had left. Violet asks the boy for an envelope instead and after a few minutes, the boy hands Violet a red one with the words “Asahi Café” printed in a clean script on the back, and her ordered drink—Sunset juice.
Walking to a nearby table, Violet grabs a piece of paper and a pen from her bag and starts writing.
Dear Owner,
By the time you read this, I’ll be another few thousand miles from where I left this letter. I’d like to thank you for showing me what home is.
It’s the feeling of being alive—that is what home feels like.
I’m glad to have been guided by your letter in truly finding home. But for now, here I am, writing a letter and hoping that you also find your way home, because I know that you’re lost too. I hope you find it—your Asahi Café. I hope you’ll eventually return to feel the magic of home, to taste your drinks, so you’ll finally find out what all the hype was about. Because they’re right—your customers. They are magical. I found home, so I hope you find it too. Safe travels!
From
Violet.
Literary: Asahi Cafe
Everywhere she looks is bleak and unwelcoming, very much in contrast to the bright digital billboards around her flashing the words “Welcome Home!”
Violet clutches her luggage tighter as she sits down in a chair in the airport’s waiting area, deciding that she’d grab a few moments of rest before her flight is called. As she observes the surge of people rushing around her, it feels as if she is stuck in time—static in the middle of the current of blurred faces moving on with their lives.
As she tears her gaze from the influx of travelers, her eyes land on a small red envelope placed right next to her. On the back, the words “Asahi Café” are printed in a clean script with a little drawing of a sunrise beside them.
Violet probably shouldn’t pick it up as it could’ve been someone else’s. But something in her gut tells her that she has to open it and read its contents. She’ll just return the envelope if there is something important written inside. It’s not like she’s going to lose anything—she’s leaving home and leaving everything behind anyway.
Dear whomever:
By the time you read this, I’ll probably be away on a plane travelling somewhere far from where I last left this letter. You’re lucky for actually opening this red envelope; most people would just leave it be or throw it away. As a gift, let me tell you my story.
I used to own this quaint little café called Asahi Café right in the middle of town. Asahi means “morning” or “sunlight” in Japanese, so I decorated my café as such. It was warm and welcoming, the orange and yellow tones made everyone who came to the café feel as if the sun was hugging them from the inside.
The drinks, too, revolved around that theme. Many of our customers enjoyed our drinks because they said that they were special. When I asked about this, they told me that drinking our Sunlight lattes was the feeling of serenity in seeing the sun rise every morning, the quiet moments of peace before the entire world woke up. Our Midnight coffees were the many sleepless nights of feeling the cool breeze tickle their skin as they stared at the shining stars above.
Our special, though, was the Sunset juice. It was an all-time favorite of our customers. In all honesty, in spite of being the owner, I never understood the hype about it. They said that despite the drink being iced, it warmed them inside in a way that would remind them of being wrapped in a hug—homey, cozy, and snug. For some, drinking Sunset juice was like walking home and seeing the sky—pinks, purples, oranges, and reds, all blended together in the vast expanse above. It was the fulfilment that made their hearts burst and made them think that they were so lucky to be alive right at those moments.
Many have told me that my café had a “magical air” around it. I didn’t really get it. But I’m glad that I gave people a sanctuary from the unrelenting and cruel world.
I served many customers in Asahi—from young, loud, obnoxious children who greatly enjoyed our sweet pastries and hung out at the café while their moms chitchatted at another table enjoying their lattes, to quiet, stressed-out, yet hopeful teenagers who would type away on their laptops all day, trying to catch up on their schoolwork.
I’ve learned their stories—of heartbreak and love, of feeling lost and being found, of being alone yet having enough company, and of being a part of a crowd yet feeling too lonesome. I’m glad that Asahi worked its magic somehow, and made this quaint little café a place for them to call home. How do I know this? Well, I saw the prominent change in my customers once they entered the store. Sometimes it was the small bounce in their steps as they walked to the cashier, or the way their eyes sparkled when they ordered a drink. Most times it was the way their smiles widened as they conversed with their friends while hanging out at the café, or just the way that they looked: like they weren’t carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders—like they could finally breathe and be at home.
The thing is, though, while Asahi was home to these people, it was never that to me. I suppose it’s because "home" is used so broadly in a sense that most of the time, we forget what it really means. People confuse it with this tangible four-walled place that they sleep in and call a house—or in this case, Asahi Café.
Maybe seeing my customers treat Asahi as their home was what made me realize that home isn’t really a place, or a drink, or a spot in the café. It’s not a place that’s open from Mondays to Sundays 6am to 12am, nor is it a space that one can simply leave and come back to whenever they feel like it. I guess that was my mistake; I saw Asahi simply as Asahi Café and not Asahi Café—a home for those who needed it.
I now realize that home is a feeling. It’s the feeling of warmth that spreads throughout the tired office worker’s body whenever they get to relax in the café’s quiet corners after a rigorous shift. It’s the nervousness and excitement rushing through the veins of those two teenagers on their first date, whispering in hushed tones and looking at each other with stars in their eyes. It’s the feeling of security that blankets the sleeping child as his mother sips her third coffee of the day. It’s the blazing heat from that group of friends whose boisterous laughter and chatter fill the café with a sense of unity and friendship.
Anyway, I’m glad Asahi was a home for them. It just wasn’t that for me. That’s why I left: I needed to find my home too. To feel the warmth that my customers felt while sipping our house special. To feel the magic of home. And maybe then, I’ll return to taste our drinks, so I’ll finally find out what all the hype was about. Or I’ll open up a branch some five thousand miles from here. Wherever it may be, I’m sure I’ll eventually find home.
But for now, here I am, writing a letter and hoping that you also find your way home, because I know that you’re lost too. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have picked up this envelope in a busy airport. I hope you find it—your Asahi café. But if not, try finding a branch! Maybe it’ll show you home. Safe travels!
From
Asahi Café’s past owner
Ps. Don’t worry about the café! I left it to my best friend. I know that it’s home to her too.
Violet carefully folds the letter and slides it back into its faded red envelope. It’s been almost three years since she picked it up at the airport some five thousand miles from where she’s currently standing. She grips her bag tightly as she looks at the sign on the window. Violet recounts all the years of finding and all the research that she did. She didn’t find much except that it was a quaint little café in her old town.
Up till now, Violet was convinced that Asahi Café didn’t actually exist. After all, she lived in that town for at least eighteen years. Surely, she would’ve seen or heard of the café. Perhaps it was a magical place meant only for people who could feel home. But then, the letter said that the owner themself couldn’t feel home. It baffled—and still baffles—her, so she decided to push it to the back of her mind and just focus on travelling to look for home. Through those three years of leaving what she was once familiar with, the letter was a constant reminder for her: it said that she was lost. And maybe she was. At first, Violet wasn’t all too sure of what she had to search for. But thanks to the letter, she realized that she too was looking for home. And if the café was a magical place meant for those who felt home, then, it would show up eventually. She just needed to find her home first.
Now, she’s here, after three years of searching. After countless early morning dawns to feel the serenity of seeing the sun rise, many sleepless nights of feeling the cool midnight breeze tickle her skin as she stared at the shining stars above, and the numerous days of walking home and seeing the sky--pinks, purples, oranges, and reds, all blended together in the vast expanse above—she’s finally face to face with the place that served as a home for so many people.
Asahi Café. Open Mondays to Sundays 6am to 12am.
She takes a deep breath and steps inside.
Instantly, warm air greets her. The café has orange and yellow tones that make Violet feel as if the sun is hugging her from the inside. Her small, cautious steps towards the counter have a little bounce as Violet recalls her journey.
Throughout those years, she felt the warmth that spread throughout her tired body as she hugged her dog after a rigorous shift. She felt the nervousness and excitement rushing through her veins as she sat across her date, whispering in hushed tones, both of them with stars in their eyes. She felt the blanket of security as she wrapped her jacket tighter while she walked around campus on particularly cold nights. She felt the blazing heat from her group of friends whose boisterous laughter and chatter filled every corner of her dorm with a sense of unity and friendship.
Everywhere she looks is bright and welcoming, very much in contrast to the bleak surroundings before.
As she reaches the counter, she holds the envelope a bit tighter. Her eyes glisten with unshed tears as she decides what to order.
That’s when it hits her—the reason why she didn’t know that there was an Asahi Café in her hometown was because she didn’t feel home yet. Asahi Café isn’t magical. It’s a normal café that she once passed by countless times, but failed to see because she was too lost. But for those who have felt home, it has always been there as one of those places that sheltered them from the harsh world and brought the feeling of home a thousandfold. That was the reason why the owner also didn’t see and understand Asahi’s magic. Because they saw it simply as a café when in reality, Asahi is a medium to remind people of the feeling of home.
And now that Violet has experienced what it’s like to feel home through her three years of travelling, she’s finally found it. Asahi Café.
Violet asks the person behind the counter if she can see the owner, but he just shakes his head and tells her that the previous owner had left. Violet asks the boy for an envelope instead and after a few minutes, the boy hands Violet a red one with the words “Asahi Café” printed in a clean script on the back, and her ordered drink—Sunset juice.
Walking to a nearby table, Violet grabs a piece of paper and a pen from her bag and starts writing.
Dear Owner,
By the time you read this, I’ll be another few thousand miles from where I left this letter. I’d like to thank you for showing me what home is.
It’s the feeling of being alive—that is what home feels like.
I’m glad to have been guided by your letter in truly finding home. But for now, here I am, writing a letter and hoping that you also find your way home, because I know that you’re lost too. I hope you find it—your Asahi Café. I hope you’ll eventually return to feel the magic of home, to taste your drinks, so you’ll finally find out what all the hype was about. Because they’re right—your customers. They are magical. I found home, so I hope you find it too. Safe travels!
From
Violet.
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