Ocean

There’s a little café hidden in the countryside, tucked away in narrow alleys that twist along the ocean lanes. If you keep walking, you’ll eventually stumble upon it. It sits so close to the sea that sometimes I wonder—isn’t it scary? And yet, at other times, isn’t it such a blessing?

There are barely six tables inside, and it feels less like a café and more like a secret gem you only discover when you’ve been lost long enough. There are hardly any customers. Whenever I’m here in the countryside, I always come back, because my heart whispers it won’t be long before it closes forever.

Sometimes I imagine it was opened just to soothe the loneliness of the old granny who runs it—but maybe that’s only in my head. Still, the tintinnabulation of the windchimes every time I enter settles into my heart.

I always sit by the window, order my favorite Pad Thai, a side of Tempura, Pickled Vegetables, and end with Mochi. I watch the evening sky soften while the ocean offers its last restless glimpses before night swallows it whole.

Places like this remind me to slow down—to leave the rat race behind and simply exist here, in this moment, at this little café by the sea. I’ve only just begun learning how to travel alone, but with every step, I learn something new. For now, I’m here for a week—before I return to the chimneys again.