a familiar feeling.

I arrived in that city without knowing how. There were no signs, no terminal, no greeting other than the damp metallic smell that clung to the air. The sky was gray-blue, like a computer screen that had forgotten how to show an image. When I stepped off the bus—or perhaps it was a train, I couldn’t tell—I realized there was no vehicle behind me at all, as if I were the only passenger who’d crossed over from another world.

The streets were empty, but not dead. A soft hum lingered, like a buried machine continuing its labor long after its purpose had been lost. In the distance, buildings stood tall, yet their shapes flickered, changing each time I looked away. The number of windows never stayed the same.

I started walking with no direction. My shoes echoed against the pavement, but the echoes didn’t match my pace—one step from me, two from the air, as if someone else were imitating me from a few seconds behind.

At the first corner stood a small café with frosted glass doors. The letters on the window were half-erased, but I could still read one phrase: “Welcome back.” Not welcome. Welcome back.

I don’t remember ever being here.

Inside, a hanging light swayed gently. No customers. Only a barista whose face refused to settle into focus. I couldn’t guess their age, or even their gender—their features looked like an unfinished digital rendering. They stared at me for a while, then said quietly, “You came back.”

I wanted to ask, Who are you?
But my mouth chose another question. “Am I late?”

The barista smiled, or something resembling it. “There’s no late here. Only repetition.”

I sat. They placed a cup of coffee in front of me, though I hadn’t ordered. Steam rose and curled in looping shapes that made my head ache. In the reflection of the dark liquid, I saw my face—but slightly older, slightly more tired.

“It’s been a long time since you returned,” they said, still wiping the spotless table.

I nodded as if I understood. “How long was I gone?”

They paused, then said, “Depends where you start counting.”

The coffee tasted bitter—the kind of bitterness I’d known since childhood, though I couldn’t say from where. My tongue remembered it before my mind could. I looked out the window. The street was empty, yet in the glass I saw someone walking behind me—though I was facing the opposite way.

When I turned, no one was there.

The barista spoke again, still not looking at me.
“Sometimes people come here to find something they’ve already found.”

I asked, “What am I looking for?”

“You’re not ready to hear it again.”

I wanted to be angry, but there was no energy left for anger. The world beyond the café felt distant, like we were both folded inside a crease of time. I leaned my forehead against the window, and for a moment, I was sure I saw rain falling—but every drop froze midair, suspended.

When I looked back, the barista was gone. The cup on the table was empty, and at the bottom, written in black residue, were the words: “Don’t forget where you were.”

I stepped outside, still tasting the ghost of the coffee. The street had changed. Now there was a long corridor lit by low yellow bulbs. The end of it blurred into fog. On the right wall, a row of posters showed a face that felt familiar, though I couldn’t place it.

That face—my face, maybe—was printed with the caption: “Have you seen him?”

I stared at it for a long time, feeling strangely guilty. When I touched the paper, it felt warm, like human skin. I pulled my hand back.

From the far end of the corridor came footsteps. The rhythm matched the double echo that had followed me before. I knew someone was approaching, though the fog thickened each time I tried to look. Finally, I saw a silhouette: tall, thin, moving slowly but deliberately.

It stopped a few meters away. I could hear its breathing, but its face remained in shadow.
“Do you remember me?” the voice rasped, gentle, like a dream trying to recall itself.

“I don’t know,” I said.

It extended a hand.
“It’s time to go back.”

I stared at the hand—long, pale, like the root of a tree. Beneath the fear, there was a strange calm, the kind that comes before surrender. I wanted to reach out, but my legs grew heavy. The floor began to slide backward, like a conveyor pulling me away.

“Back where?” I asked.

It smiled faintly. “To where you came from, before you forgot.”

Then it vanished into the fog.

I ran after it, but every time I reached the end, the corridor folded into its beginning again. The walls sealed behind me, and I found myself once more before the café. The letters Welcome back gleamed freshly painted.

I laughed softly—not from humor, but from the absurd elegance of it all. Maybe I had been here before. Maybe I’d never left.

I went back inside. This time, the barista was different.
The barista was me.

He looked at me with an expression I recognized—tired and serene all at once.
“You’re right on time,” he said.

“So I’m the barista now?”

He nodded. “We take turns. One waits. One leaves. That’s the cycle.”

I wanted to argue, but the chair behind the counter drew me in. I sat down, and through the glass I saw a new figure outside, staring at the “Welcome back” sign with confused eyes.

The previous version of me straightened his apron and stepped outside without a word. His body dissolved into the pale light of a sunset that never really existed.

Now I was alone.
But the room felt full—heavy with the ghosts of old conversations, with the unending scent of coffee that never cooled.

I noticed a calendar on the back wall. Every date said the same thing: May 12.
I tore off one page, but beneath it was the same date again.

I scribbled something on a scrap of paper—perhaps a leftover habit: “If I forget again, read this.”
I tucked it under the first cup on the first table.

Time here didn’t flow; it circled itself lazily. Every so often, footsteps sounded outside. Each time the door opened, someone new entered, carrying the same lost expression I once wore. I greeted them with a smile I already knew by heart.

“Welcome back,” I said.

And deep inside, something trembled—a vibration between déjà vu and sorrow.

---

I don’t know how long I sat behind the counter before the light outside dimmed into evening. The hanging lamp flickered, and in its reflection on the table I saw something: a shadow standing just behind me, too close.

I turned.
No one.

But in the window, the reflection remained. My face—older this time. It pressed a finger to its lips, a quiet warning.

I knew the gesture wasn’t a threat, only a reminder. Because moments later, I heard the sound of an engine outside, a bus maybe, arriving. In the window’s glow, I saw someone step off, look around, and fix their eyes on the café with that same bewildered recognition I once had.

I knew the door would open soon.
And it did.

The newcomer stepped in, looked at me the way I once looked at the barista. I smiled. They hesitated, smiling back. I could see their eyes scanning the room—the seat they’d soon occupy, the untouched cup already waiting.

“Been here before?” I asked.

They shook their head. “I don’t think so.”

“Yes,” I said softly. “That’s what I said, too.”

They frowned, unsure. But I already knew the script: they would drink, taste that strange familiarity, look outside and see the wrong reflection, then ask the same question I once asked.

Everything felt familiar. So familiar it hurt—a song replaying from a broken cassette, its melody warped but still knowable.

Night came slowly. Streetlights blinked on one by one, like notes in an unfinished lullaby.

Sometimes, faint whispers rose from the walls—the voices of past baristas, or maybe other versions of me. They didn’t speak in any language I could understand, but their rhythm matched my own breathing.

When the visitor finally stood up, they said, “I have to go.”

I nodded. “You’ll come back.”

They frowned. “How can you be sure?”

“Because I once stood where you’re standing.”

They looked at me a long time, then left. The door closed softly, and with each of their fading footsteps, the café grew dimmer—as though every departure swallowed a bit of light.

On the table, their cup was still warm. At the bottom, black residue formed a single word. I leaned closer.

It changed every time I blinked, but one word stayed constant: “Stay.”

I didn’t know who the message was for. Me, or whoever came next.

Time continued its lazy spiral. Sometimes I think everyone who comes to this city is just a different version of the same person—someone endlessly trying to remember who they were through the taste of a bitter, familiar coffee.

Sometimes I think I’m not a barista at all, but a custodian of memory. Each time someone forgets, they come here, order the same thing without knowing why, and leave a little emptier, a little lighter.

And I wait for the next one.

There’s always a next one.

Sometimes, on nights too quiet for breathing, I look out the window and see myself across the street—standing in unmoving rain, staring at this café like a home that no longer lets me in. I want to wave, but the reflection only smiles before fading into the fog.

And every time that happens, something in my chest hums like the final note of a song that never ends.

A familiar feeling.