That sounds like one of those moments I’d love to capture in a story—old walls humming with a forgotten sax, the scent of roasted beans tangled with dust. It’s like the coffee shop itself is a character, waiting to spill its secrets to anyone who pauses long enough to listen.

I’ll pull my notebook out, a quiet cup of coffee in hand, and let the silence in that place speak. The walls will whisper their own rhythm, and I’ll just follow it, one word at a time.