You walk out into the town. There’s a chill in the air and you feel your shoulders tense up in the cold. From the corner of your eye, you notice a hanging wooden sign; an elaborate logo and a name written in cursive that’s nearly illegible, but you just barely make out the characters for “cafe”.
You could do with a cup of coffee.
The building is quaint. Squeezed into the corner of the road by the adjacent establishments, it just barely gets any sun. But at this point in the afternoon, the sun is peeking out from behind the clouds and paints the storefront with a streak of light.
You pull at the door and it creaks open with the sound of a little bell. It’s small inside. A small bar with stools that also act as the serving counter; what looks like a well kept, but old sofa sitting by the window; a bookshelf stuffed with aged books. The space is filled with the scent of coffee, baked goods and old paper.
You approach the counter and lean over to call for service when you’re caught off guard by a head of vivid indigo hair. A person works behind the counter dressed in a tan service apron over a cozy looking cardigan. They turn to you and greet your gaze with a pair of bright green eyes. Your eyes dart away and to the nametag pinned over the uniform. They approach you and gesture to pull up their sleeves.
“Welcome! I’m Indigo, what can I get you today?”