The Coffee That Knew My Name

Rain began while Hana was walking home. She ran into a small café called Morrow. It was her first time there. The room smelled like coffee, warm bread, and burnt cinnamon.

Before Hana ordered, an old man behind the counter put down a cup. “Here you are, Hana,” he said. Her name was already written on the cup. Hana stepped back. “How do you know my name?”

The man looked confused. Then he pointed to an old photo on the wall. A young woman stood in front of the same café. She looked just like Hana, and her name tag said HANA.

“That was my grandmother,” Hana said. Her grandmother had died many years before. Hana knew that she had worked at a café, but she did not know its name.

The man smiled. “She used to drink this coffee after work. You have the same face, and the same name. For one second, I thought she had come through the door again.”

Hana tasted the coffee. It was sweet and warm. The rain stopped, but she stayed and listened to stories about her grandmother. The coffee did not really know her name. Somehow, it still felt like a message from the past. Outside, the missing letters TO lay behind the old Morrow sign, but no one looked up.