The Unanswered

Eliyas didn't ask how the café returned. He didn't ask why the path had reappeared or how the vines had unwoven themselves from the threshold. Some truths were better left untouched, at least for now. He rolled the sleeves of his salt-stained denim jacket—newly acquired from a roadside vendor, its cuffs already frayed—and let the morning chill press against his bare forearms. The fabric smelled faintly of damp earth and distant campfires, clinging stubbornly despite the city's attempts to scrub it clean. 

He spent the next few days in quiet observation, his lean frame moving through the forest with the same restless energy as the wind through the trees. Each morning, he left the worn cottage—its wooden beams groaning under the weight of too many unanswered questions—and wandered the winding trail until the air shifted and the stillness deepened. The café was always there now, waiting as though it had never vanished. 

Inside, the owner stood behind the counter, his calm eyes tracking Eliyas's entrance without surprise. The man moved with the quiet certainty of someone who had long since stopped rushing. His white hair, streaked with silver like frost on bark, was pushed back carelessly, as if he'd run his fingers through it one too many times. The sleeves of his dark shirt were rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms marked with faded scars and the dull glint of a broken chain around one wrist. His hands, calloused and steady, wiped the wooden counter in slow, even strokes. 

They spoke in short exchanges. Eliyas never pressed, though his ink-stained fingers tapped restlessly against his thigh. The owner never offered more than was given, his voice low and measured, like the hum of a well-tuned engine. 

Yet something subtle had begun to unfold. 

On the third day, Eliyas noticed a wall of faded photographs behind the counter—each one sun-bleached and curled at the edges, arranged without symmetry. Some showed faces blurred with age, some places that didn't seem real—ruined temples overgrown with moss, towering trees with metallic scars, a crumbling bridge suspended in fog. 

"Places you've been?" Eliyas asked, his voice rough from disuse; the bitter resin lingered on his chapped lips. 

The owner didn't look at the wall. His gaze remained fixed on the cup he was filling, steam curling around his scarred knuckles. "Places I've left." 

And on the fourth day, Eliyas found a book tucked between the cracks of a wooden beam. His fingers brushed the cracked leather cover. Inside were maps—inked by hand, worn at the edges. Some marked regions he had never heard of. Others bore symbols in a language that didn't feel human. 

He showed it to the owner, his thumb resting on a glyph that made his skin prickle. 

"You're not the first to come here," the man said simply, eyes flickering with something unreadable. 

That night, Eliyas sat outside the café, his back against the weathered siding. The wind carried scents of firewood and soil, tugging at the loose threads of his thermal undershirt as the nights grew colder. He'd layered it beneath the denim jacket, the collar stretched from being pulled on and off in restless agitation. His boots, scuffed and worn from too many unanswered questions, dug into the earth as if trying to root himself in place. 

He looked toward the outline of the city—faint now, like a memory losing its edges. 

Responsibilities called. Work. A life that never felt quite real. 

But the café had become more than a retreat. It had become a question. One that gnawed at him during the quiet hours: Who was the man behind the counter? What was this place? Why had it chosen him now? 

And then—on the fifth day—it changed. 

He arrived at dawn, but the café was closed. 

For the first time, the door was locked. 

A symbol had been carved into the wood. Small, discreet. Like a sigil—one he recognized faintly from the old map. 

Eliyas stared at it, pulse suddenly heavy. The scar across his left eyebrow throbbed, a phantom ache. He touched the mark with his fingertips, then jerked his hand back as if burned. 

Whatever peace this place held… it was only the surface. 

And something was beginning to stir beneath.