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Sat in the back corner of a small quaint café hid behind a hundred books, I scan the shelf of well thumbed and loved paperbacks, a few stand out to me and I wonder how many people have sat where I do and picked a random book off the shelf; who loved these pieces of literature so much for them to be so creased and bent with the thrills only a narrative can provide.

I find myself looking at every detail of this little haven. The pictures on the wall full of roses, hearts and love in perfectly proportioned white frames. The lights in cream bird cages, the red sofas with creased cushions laced with stories of the day, how many people had sat there today; shuffled around mid conversation, crossed and uncrossed their legs? The numerous, carefully detailed, clocks on the wall all the exact same size, shape with not a second between them and I begin to wonder.

This all has a story, the boy; I note around my age, who works behind the counter who politely told me on my first visit that the oranges he’d squeezed for me were not as ‘divine’ as usual, however, they still seemed great to me. The small silver swans on the table which kindly fell apart as soon as I touched it, and subsequently took forever to work out how to put back together, let alone the actual use for it which was probably so obvious, yet I still failed to work it out. The vases of silk flowers so deliberately placed identically on each set of tables, they seem so enticing like they should smell freshly picked. Before I leave I notice a quote printed on the wall behind some seats “Love is beautiful” is that the point of this whole place that I’d so easily fallen in love with? It was hidden away in a crevice not only in the wall but in the whole city. This small piece of tranquillity that so many people rush by and never notice, I had walked down this street so many times yet this little haven seemed a mystery to me, a kind of secret garden; hidden down some less than attractive concrete stairs in a tiny corner of this huge city.