Afternoon in Jimbocho. The bookshops are closed for lunch. Rain on the awning. Inside, the barista pours water in a spiral over the grounds and the room fills with the smell of it.

A piano trio on the speakers, something from the late fifties. Bass walking. Brushes on the snare like someone sweeping a porch very carefully.

Green curry from the place next door, still warm. The ceramic is heavy in your hands.

You sit. The rain continues. Nobody needs anything from you for the next hour.

A place I have never been, built from someone who told me about it because he thought I would want to know. He was right.