Waking up, at first I felt the cold break through the layer of warmth the blanket was giving me. But then the grogginess began to set in and I thought about last night. I wonder how much of it actually happened. Did I actually go to the coffee shop last night? Did I really discover that at night the coffee shop turns magical? Did I actually meet a talking cat?

  I stretch, my hands hitting the top of my headboard and decide finding out the truth will be my goal of the day. It’s not like I had anything better to do.

  I think about the last day at the bakery before my trip. “We’ll allow you the two weeks but you better come back, you’re our best worker. Don’t enjoy it out there too much.” The guilt sets in because I’ve been avoiding telling them that I’m back. I know that they need me. But I find myself putting it off.

  What better way to procrastinate than to uncover the truth of a magical coffee shop? Maybe then, I’ll find some inspiration to write.

  I throw on my shoes, heading out the door, throwing my hair into a bun as I walk out. I consider for a moment if I should get properly dressed, glancing down at the sweatpants that I slept in but decide otherwise. It’ll be good enough.

  The sun illuminates the snow surrounding the sidewalk. Winter is so weird, it’s known for being cold, dark, and gloomy but there are specific moments during the day. You have to be in the right place at the right time to experience it but during those moments, there’s a brightness to everything. During those moments, the sun seems to give the snow an extra boost to shine on everything surrounding it and everything feels magical.

  As I approach Whimsical Beans, that magical feeling fades away and I’m left with nothingness as I realize the cafe is the same as it’s always been. A large brick building, with multiple shops intertwined within. A bookstore, an arcade, and Whimsical Beans. The only indication that the coffee shop is there is the little chalkboard in front of the door indicating what the daily specials are.

  TODAYS SPECIALS:

  MACCHIATO- $3 HOT OR ICED

  LAVENDER LATTE- $4 HOT OR ICED

  PEPPERMINT TEA- $2 HOT

  As I go inside, everything is as it’s always been. The same menu board they’ve always had, no indication of anything infused, and the hibiscus tea is in bold letters in front of me. The patrons with their laptops, working at normal speed or procrastinating while taking sips of their drink, savoring their drink in between their work.

  “Can I have the caramel macchiato, hot, please?” I say to a barista I’ve seen many times before but can’t place her name, I look for a name tag but I’m left with no indication.

  “Of course, would you like whipped cream on that?” she asks.

  “No, just as it comes is fine,” I say before blurting out “sorry, but does the menu change at night?”

  “No, we serve the same menu all hours of the day. We close at 7, though, so we aren’t really open during night time.” She says, sending panic shooting through me as I realize I may have just hallucinated everything.

  “I was here around 9pm last night.” I feel the room begin to close in on me, the panic setting in that maybe I am losing my mind.

  “Yeah, we would’ve been closed by then,” she says but then following up her thought she adds, “If closing took extra long, a nice member may have served you but we would’ve been closed for 2 hours by then.”

  “Okay. Thank you,” is all I could muster up to say before paying, grabbing my drink, and heading home to gather myself.

  My pace increases as I try to catch back up with reality. Did I fall into some type of black hole last night? The coffee shop turns into some sort of magic portal into a universe where the drinks are magical and cats can talk now? Even thinking it feels insane, there wasn’t any way I could really talk to anyone to confirm these thoughts.

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  Maybe it was all a dream and the stress from traveling just really got to me.

  Jet lag, is all.

  I head back inside, drink in hand, and open the window for some fresh air. Clarity. I lit a candle–bergamot and lavender scented. I bought this when my panic attacks were at their worst. I heard that lavender was very calming and bergamot is meant to uplift the mood and calm anxieties. Lighting this candle has become a ritual of mine whenever I feel myself begin to slip and panic again.

  I reach for my journal to write the first words I’ve really written in months.

  IDEA:

  A magical coffee shop ran by a talking cat named Sage.

  Maybe that’s exactly what all of this was. A fever-dream of a book idea that had been hiding deep in my subconscious. Maybe the trip wasn’t useless after all.

  I hear a loud crash behind me and turn to find my potted plant smashed to the ground, thrown off my windowsill by the wind.

  “Meow.” Not the wind, a black cat, looking directly up at me, pleading eyes to challenge to question all my thoughts about my current reality.

  “Sage? Is that you?” I ask, but looking into her eyes, I know the answer. She looks up at me, not answering. Typical cat.

  “Can you actually talk? What happened last night? Was that real?” I plead for her to answer me but instead I’m met with just the faintest idea of a nod in her. “Could you please answer me?” She doesn’t, but at this point, I know I need to figure out what’s happening at the cafe.

  What is happening during the after hours when the workers think they’re closed? Was the barista lying to me and she knows exactly what goes on? Or are the night time workers not actual workers at the cafe at all? Did I step into another reality? So many questions, and I’m just left with a cat who won’t talk to me and my plant smashed on the ground left for me to clean up.

  As the sun begins to set, I make my way to the cafe once again, alongside my new found friend in search for the truth.

  There’s no way I could actually be going absolutely insane when the cat remembers me. She knows the truth. She knows me. She showed up because she wanted me to go back, I just know it. She wants me to uncover the truth.

  If anyone ever told me that they’d come across a magical cafe and met a talking cat that they hang out with, I’d think there was something seriously wrong with them. Now, it’s my reality. I’m the weirdo talking to cats and hoping to sip on magical teas.

  I thought back on my first night back and that man who was sitting in his seat in the corner of the cafe, furiously writing as if his life depended on it. That wasn’t normal. I’ve met other writers and sure, they write more than I do, I think you have to to call yourself a writer. But– that was unlike anything I’d ever seen.

  I wanted to be him. Writing has been hard for me lately. The entire purpose of my 2-week trip. I’d heard you had to really experience something to really be a writer. I hoped to spark that creative drive and have new experiences to write about.

  “Write what you know,” they say. I’ve lived a sheltered life, quite boring by most people's standards. I’m nothing extraordinary, I was a solid B student, got my work in on time but it wasn’t always perfect. Finished school, got a job at the local bakery. It doesn’t bring in a lot of money but pays the rent and gets me through my day to day. I live with a roommate who I wouldn’t necessarily call a friend but she’s nice enough. Clean. She pays the rent on time. The kind of roommate anyone would want.

  I needed more, though. Living a plain life doesn’t make for good writing. I’d heard of this place in the forest where people live, completely disconnected from modern society. I thought staying with them, seeing how people who are extraordinary in my mind live would spark something.

  It turns out being in the forest away from technology in the winter is terrible and it did not spark anything in me aside from the need to get away from there. It takes a special kind of person to be disconnected from everything and that isn’t me.

  This, though, is different. This could inspire that spark. I could be extraordinary. I could be anything I want.

  Sage talked about driving, if a cat could talk and drive, there’s no saying how much I could achieve. Of course, the drawback would be that it only lasts for 4 hours tops, but I could write so many novels in those 4 hours. I could be so many things. I could start with my experiences at the cafe and the people I meet.

  I could write about a talking cat.

  If I wrote it as non-fiction, it would likely get people to pick up the book but I may become known for being a little insane. I don’t know if I want that. A fiction book? I’d have to make her more likeable, she’s a little too sassy for the average reader but it could be a hit. It’d be magical, it’d have to be, right?

  I got to the counter, the cat following shortly behind.

  “Hello! Welcome to Whimsical Beans, what can I get you for tonight?”

  “Infused catnip tea for her and-” I almost ordered my own but stopped myself, realizing I don’t know anything about it yet. I don’t know if there are side-effects. “Just one regular hot tea for me.”

  I grabbed our mugs and went to the table we were at the night before, right next to the floor, I imagine cats like the extra warmth.

  She jumps onto the table, taking short licks from her mug.

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