**Kissaten Time Machine**

There’s a door on a side street

that opens like a soft old song—

brass bell, wooden frame,

light the color of sepia afternoons.

Inside, the city loosens its tie.

The air goes quiet on purpose.

We’re drawn to places

that look like they’ve been waiting—

vinyl chairs that remember

a thousand careful sit-downs,

lamps that glow as if they learned

to be gentle long ago.

Is it only the vibe?

Or the way a room can hold

a time we never lived

yet somehow miss?

Here, coffee isn’t rushed.

It arrives with its own small ceremony,

dark and steady—

a cup you can lean on

while thoughts find their shape.

Kissaten were built for hush:

for writers tracking a sentence,

for businessmen unbuttoning the day,

for anyone who needs

a cozy shelter from the city’s constant yes.

A place divorced from time,

but still breathing.

Outside, buildings grow taller,

streets swell and change their names,

but these rooms sit

as if the clock forgot to move them—

motionless, and yet alive.

Monuments to bygone hours

still buzzing with quiet work,

promising a future

that doesn’t erase the past

but learns to keep it warm.

So sit down.

Order a drink.

Take a deep breath

and let the silence hold you.

You might find a memory

you didn’t know you carried—

stirring softly

like sugar at the bottom of the cup,

sweetening the present

with something just beyond our grasp.

-end

I am a true believer in Kissaten No. 3.

Cheers,

nat