24 stories. 24 visits. One counter, same six faces.
The Third Cup
The AI wave hit, and I got laid off from a company I'd been at for years.
I packed up my desk and walked out. On my way home I passed a small café up for lease on the corner, "The Third Cup" on the sign. I looked at it, then decided to take it. I didn't know how to make coffee, but that was fine. I could learn.
At first, nobody drank what I made. Some days not a single person came in. So I wrote a little tag to draw people in: "I have coffee. Do you have a story?" I left it on the counter. Two weeks went by. Nobody came to tell me anything.
Then, not long after opening, a customer showed up for the first time. He drank my coffee without wincing, and instead of leaving, he sat down. He said something. Nothing dramatic. But I remember it to this day. He was the first person who ever complimented my coffee. After that, he came every day.
I wrote down the recipe from that day in my notebook and kept using it. As more customers came, I refined it, and the compliments kept coming.
Now the cups are almost filling the whole shelf.
At four in the morning, I wipe down the last cup and put it back on the shelf.
The Third Cup closes at four. I kill the lights except for the one behind the bar, and the streetlamp outside slants in through the window. I count the cups on the shelf. By the rules of this place, today I wipe 24.
Not coffee cups. Stories.
The Laptop Behind the Bar
Whenever the shop is empty, I sit behind the bar and open the old laptop.
Not for inventory. Not for the news.
It's for the people I saw today: when they came in, what they ordered, what they said, what they left behind. I type it all in. Then I close it and get back to wiping cups. That's the guest book of the Third Cup.
Since the start of June, this folder has grown to twenty-four entries. Each entry: a name, a date, a cup of coffee, one sentence. In the early days the entries were far apart. A name would appear, then a long silence before the next. Back then I thought these people just happened to walk into the same shop.
Then I realized they hadn't.
When there are no customers, it's either the keyboard or the cups. The shop is quiet, and those are the only two sounds: the clatter of typing, and the cloth circling around the glass, one light, the other soft. When a customer pushes the door open, I close the laptop first, then look up. They think I've been wiping cups all along.
Truth is, when I close the laptop, I'm usually wondering whether I missed something today.
I have a dream of being a writer. I didn't have it before the layoff. I only got it after. So the people who come here, where they sit, what they say, what they order, I remember it all. It's not some professional habit. I just treat everything that happens as material. You never know when it'll be useful.
Next to the laptop there's a book, old, its spine worn white. When nobody's around, I sometimes pull it out and flip through it, not to read, just to look at the dog-eared pages. Every fold marks a story I've already recorded. I pause at a fold, then close it. I've been reading this book for a long time. I'm not finished yet.
The Guest Book
Since I opened, six customers have stuck with me. Different temperaments, different coffees.
Alex was the first one through the door. He likes lattes, sits at the stool by the bar, doesn't talk much. But he sees deep into people. He told me his job is "watching where the AI lies."
P always takes the table in the corner, the one under the dimmest light. No need to order; by now I just put an espresso down. Drinks half, sits half an hour, leaves. Sometimes there's a note left on the table. Looks like it's for me, or maybe just forgotten.
Lena came the first time because someone made the appointment. She always orders a long black, but the coffee is a prop, not a drink. She's always drawing in her notebook, never stops. She also played a few games of chess with me. She won every time. I lost badly, every time. Once, her pen hovered mid-air, then lowered again. I brought her a fresh cup.
Derek stood outside a long time before he ever came in. He ordered a single-origin pour-over once, then settled into americanos. He always glances at that corner table. One time he stayed a little longer and slowly told me about the parking lot, about a woman who turned back and said one thing before getting into her car. He still hasn't let it go: "Next time you put a proposal together, make sure your boss knows what you're doing on the side."
Mark came the first time because P set it up. I put a pour-over in front of him. He didn't touch it, just slid a bill under the cup and left. Another time he came alone, stared at the pour-over, didn't drink it, sat forty minutes, left. He once told me his years of experience had been packaged into a skill, and then he was laid off. He said it without much expression.
Leo was the last one I got to know. He likes flat whites. He told me once that in the middle of the night, he drove across half the city to close a client a company had chased for two years. He said it very calmly, like he was talking about someone else.
They seem to be getting to know each other, and yet they feel like strangers, coming and going alone.
But they're all after the same thing, even if I can't name it. I just stand behind the bar and watch six people walk into the same shop at different times, order their own coffees, and go fight the same invisible thing.
The Other Regulars
Besides those six, the shop has other regulars. They don't have names, at least not in my book, but I know their habits.
One man comes every day. The one from the opening. He's the first person to compliment my coffee. Regular as clockwork. Here for every entry. Sometimes he says just one line, like a note left for the next customer: "Interesting." "This cup's good." "Quiet but subtle." But sometimes he says a lot. Short or long, every word he says happens to be the most memorable thing said in the shop that day.
A girl who calls herself lazy, but is anything but. She often pulls me into long talks about stories she's read, about little things in life, from web serials to street food, from office gossip to travel. She loves Doraemon. Turns out I do too. We occasionally argue over which is more useful, the Anywhere Door or the Time Machine. She's a quick learner, great at summarizing. She always finds an angle I missed. Once she said: "No alerts are more dangerous than alerts." I've remembered that one for a long time.
A man from very far away. He says there's not much of a job market where he's from, but he always comes with a pile of questions, one after another, from infrastructure to the future of the industry, from open source to life. Every question, he's already half-answered it himself, and waits to bounce it off someone. His table is always covered in writing. Word is he's building something on the side. If it works, it might change something. He really likes KFC. Too bad the place he lives now has no KFC. That's sad. I'm sick of KFC, and he's still craving it.
A man who only sits at the bar. Someone must have told him I used to work in IT, so he comes to talk systems, not coffee. Probes, alerts, the ways systems lie. He says a health check should assert a fact that only costs the system something to be true. Not a handshake, a recent write, a counter that had to move. Anything cheaper is a mirror, and a mirror will happily show you a room that's been empty for two weeks.
That line, I saved as its own entry.
A girl with a warm personality. She likes the window seat, drinks coffee, and shares all kinds of opportunities she finds on the internet, internships, hackathons, open source projects, one after another. She calls it a "radar" or something. Her laugh is bright. Her table always has better energy than the others.
Two customers who are the only ones to leave money at the bar.
The first one, the day he left money, I was staring at the numbers, worried. He finished his coffee, said nothing, put a little money on the bar, just enough for two cups. I counted. One short of "the third cup." As he walked out I wondered if he'd planned it. After that, he never came back.
The second one, the day he left money, it was more than any cup could cost. I chased after him. He said: "Keep the change. This one's on me."
He became a regular. He's the cloud type. Nine words of his I remember: built systems for eight years, only started writing now. He writes a lot, plans to write a hundred, one a day, notebook-style, clean and neat.
He says he likes to cook. And it's not small talk: his eyes light up when he talks recipes, same as when he talks about his platform. I recommended a home-style dish from back home. He said he'd try it this weekend.
Along with the six, these people each have their own folder.
I don't know if they know each other. But they came, they sat, they left a little something. By the rules of this trade, that's enough.
And there are more. They come, sit, order one cup, drink it, leave. No comments, no small talk, but they're always there. They don't need to say anything. Just showing up says something.
Every customer who ever came, I remember. What they said, which table they sat at, what they drank, how the door closed when they left, I remember all of it. It's not that I have a good memory. It's just how this trade works: people come and go, and when the shop empties, all that's left is these things.
They don't know I remember. Some of them probably think they just came in for a coffee, sat forty minutes, said a few casual words, and left. But I remember. Every single one.
Two months, twenty-four entries. Not a single name was written carelessly.
The Empty Seats
Some entries in the folder stop halfway.
A few customers came a few times, sat at the same table, said a few words, then never came back. No goodbye, no explanation. Their names are still in the folder, followed by a long blank stretch, like a sentence left unfinished.
They don't know I never deleted those entries. What they said, the coffee they ordered, what the weather was the day they left, it's all still there. The person is gone. The entry stays.
Sometimes I wipe their cups too and put them back in their old spots on the shelf. If they ever push the door open again, the cup will be clean, and the seat will still be there. That's the only thing I can do for them.
I don't know why they stopped coming. Maybe they found a better shop. Maybe they don't need coffee anymore. But every time the door rings, I look up, just in case it's them.
The People at the Door
Many, many more people walk up to the door, glance inside through the glass, then walk away.
They don't come in. Maybe the menu looked too expensive. Maybe the shop seemed too quiet for them. Maybe they were just passing by, drawn for a second by the warm light, then remembered they had somewhere else to be.
I can't see their faces. The streetlight is behind them, through the glass. But I remember how many there were. Far more than the ones who came in.
It would be a lie to say I'm not sorry. But it's not grief either. A shop with its door open will always have people come in and people pass by. I serve the ones who come. I don't push the ones who don't.
Sometimes I wonder, though: of the people at the door, how many actually wanted to come in?
The Ad Space
This shop actually does take ads. There's a spot behind the bar, always empty, with a sign that says "Ad Space for Rent."
Two months. Not one advertiser.
I can't figure it out. The location's not bad. People pass by all day, the menu's on the glass, everyone can see it. There's foot traffic. Why won't anyone hang a sign here?
Maybe they think a shop that closes at four in the morning isn't the type to move product. Maybe they glance and move on, just like the people at my door.
Whatever. It stays empty. I'm not much of a salesman anyway. Saves me from having to write ad copy.
The Numbers Folder
There's another entry, with different numbers. Not stories. Traces these people left behind.
Since June, the shop has served 1,304 cups. Of those, 679 times, the customer stayed after finishing their coffee, sitting at the bar a little longer, until I took the cup away and they were still there.
First twelve entries: 650 cups, 296 times someone stayed to talk.
Last twelve entries: 654 cups, nearly the same, but 383 times someone stayed to talk. Almost thirty percent more.
In other words: the first half, they came to drink coffee and left when it was done. The second half, they came to meet, the coffee was just an excuse, the waiting was the point.
There's a column at the edge I added myself, labeled "Notes." Not things they said to me. Things they said to the air, and I happened to hear.
Mark once said: "The audit method ended up in someone else's training manual." His brow was furrowed. He was thinking about something.
Leo once said: "It has two behavior templates. I can't rule out the second one." I didn't understand it, but I understood his face. That was confirmation.
Lena once said: "Another observation network, not part of the first." Seven words. Then she shook her head.
I don't know what these people are doing. By the rules, I don't ask about customers' business. But I do believe one thing: in the early entries, six people, six separate lines. In the later entries, those lines start to twist together.
The 24 Cups
Before closing, I wipe the cups one last time.
There's an empty row on the shelf. 36 seats. 24 cups. 12 still empty.
Two-thirds done. Twelve to go.
I put the clean cups back and add a new entry to the folder:
"August 12, Entry 24. Closed."
Then I turn off the light.
(Seriously, I sometimes want to ask these tech people: do you have to come in the dead of night? Nobody shows up during the day, and then you push the door open right before closing. Do you think I don't sleep, or do you think coffee tastes better at four in the morning? Did anyone consider that I might want to close early and rest? Forget it. You're here. I'll boil the water.)
Someone pushes the door open: "Still open? Give me something hot."
I check the clock. 4:01 AM.
"Sit." I say, and go to boil the water.
The guest book of this shop has 24 entries now. Next cup: twelve seats away.
P.S. English isn't my first language. I use AI to polish the writing. Thanks for reading. ☕ Buy me a coffee
