Memory Lane

“Do you know what it means to love someone, young man?”

His gaze locked onto mine, catching me off guard. He didn't strike me as one to be interested in such a topic, but the faint smile at the corner of his lips hinted otherwise.

The whispers snaked through the not-so-busy air of Camden the moment I stepped off the train, curling around me like secrets shared by strangers. "Crystal Sky," they all seemed to murmur, a name that resonated with a strange power, or so I thought.

Fueled by curiosity and a slight dose of fatigue after a long journey, I embarked on a meandering walk through the town. The afternoon sun cast the cobblestone streets in a hazy glow, the sky a canvas of bruised purples and wisps of smoke. Suddenly, there it was – the source of the intrigue. A neon sign pulsed with electric life above a quaint storefront, its neon blue letters a standing out from the weathered red bricks. It read "Crystal Sky," and a flock of birds, with outstretched wings, soared eternally across its surface. The effect was almost like stumbling upon the lair of a benevolent demon lord – all the otherworldly allure, minus the ominous shadows and ominous cawing of ravens. Here, the only darkness was the twilight sky, and the only soundtrack was the gentle hum of the neon and the murmur of conversation spilling out onto the street.

As I pushed open the wooden door, which seemed rather new, a chorus of tiny bells chimed, announcing my arrival like a gentle fanfare. Despite the town's seemingly sleepy exterior, the cafe buzzed with a quiet energy. The steady clatter of cups and the rhythmic tap of footsteps provided a gentle background beat, punctuated by the occasional murmur of conversation. Above it all, the air was saturated with the most intoxicating aroma – freshly brewed coffee.

A lone figure amidst the sea of faces caught my eye. A well-dressed elderly gentleman, his hair the color of winter frost, stood out from the casual crowd with his sharp black suit. He approached me after I settled into an empty table nestled in the corner, with a courteous smile on his lips.

"Excuse me," he began with a gentle. "Would you mind terribly? Welcoming my company, especially for someone who seems to have traveled quite a distance."

I glanced down at my worn boots, dusted from the journey. He seems to have a keen eye. I'd taken a bath and changed into some fresh clothes before coming here. A wry smile tugged at the corner of my lips. "Crystal Sky, then?" I replied, gesturing to the empty seat. "Seems I've finally found it. And no, not at all," I added, grateful for the company. Having another person to talk to is never a bad thing, after all.

"Are you new in town, young man?" His initial nonchalance quickly transformed into an inquisitive spark in his eyes, catching me off-guard. For someone his age, maybe he knows the face of all the faces here. I mean, it's not that big of a town after all. When I was little, I could also tell the names of most I'd pass by. "I'm just here to visit my grandparents' graves; I don't actually live here."

"Did you come by yourself, or did you bring your family along?"

"That's some rough assumptions, I'll admit. But no, this time it's just me. No family in tow."

The old mans eyes widened momentarily, his hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck in a gesture of apology. "Oh, sorry about that!" His eyes were plying all over me, examining every small detail. "Well, seeing a new face brings me joy. You see, all my customers here are regulars."

"Are you the owner of this café?" I asked, curious about his role.

"Oh, my apologies for not introducing myself earlier. I'm Aubert Ceres, the owner of this café. You can call me Aubert."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Aubert. I'm Newell Hart, you can just call me Newell. " I replied, extending my hand. He returned the gesture, "Oh, the Hart's. Yes, I remember, on block C down Coles street. Did I get it right?" "I guess...?" I brushed my hair with a chuckle. "I was too small to remember back then."

"So, Mr. Newell, did someone recommend this place to you, or did you stumble upon it by chance?" Mr. Aubert's face revealed his fondness for engaging in long conversations. I'm a very good listener, not gonna lie, especially I love hearing stories from others. But a steady back-and-forth's not my forte though. Either way, I found myself captivated by his charm.

"You can drop the mister... Newell's just fine! And yeah, I heard about here from someone in the neighborhood, and I was also looking for a quiet spot to relax too," I explained.

"Ah, that's to be expected. There are actually a number of ways you can define quietness, in both good and bad terms. What I had in my mind, before starting this place, was a quiet where one can absorb themselves within a small world, like a large snowglobe with only them and the ones accompanying them. The interior and coffee just works up the magic. Quiet places can be found anywhere in such a small town, but one like this are rare in small towns like Camden."

Mr. Aubert, despite his age, seemed to possess an enchanting ability to draw others into his stories, which I learned today first-hand. His gestures, small yet captivating, coupled with his enigmatic smile, seemed to unlock a library of untold lives.

We had a few back-and-forth after that, though it was mostly Mr. Aubert with the floor. Then a moment of silence, before he suddenly barged me with the sudden question.

"So, did you come up with an answer?"

At first he had me totally baffled. I'm not the type to give much thought to anything. I'd rather just read one news paper and go with any political views they share rather than having my own. “Isn’t it just a matter of perspective?” I said, the first thing that came to my mind.

“But whose perspective?”

“Mine, isn’t it?”

“Are you sure about that?” The aroma of the brewing coffee, and his words, both were quite mysterious.

“Well, what is love to me is love to me, right?”

“But have you ever thought how the love you cherish or nurture came to be yours?”

“Now you're being hard to follow, Mr. Aubert. I’m not that much into these philosophical talks…”

“Oh, don’t sweat over it. Just try to think, what love means to you.”

What love means to me? My family, friends, something else? I closed my eyes, hoping to delve deep into my thoughts... but instead, I found myself faced with the familiar darkness behind my eyelids. I guess I’m not that good at imagining either. I pulled my eyelids open, Mr. Aubert’s eyes deep into mine.

“I can’t quite wrap my head around it, Mr. Aubert.”

He drew a long breath, looking somewhere between the large window and the scenery outside. "Did I ask you too much?"

I munched. "Does it mean something different to you?”

He laughed quite hard at what I said, throwing me off his gaze. “Do I seem like a type of romanticist to you?”

“Nope, not at all. Especially with your hair turned white…” Straightforward.

“That kind of hurt.” He chuckled, “But you are right. At this age, you'll lose all the zeal of life by now. But for me, I still have this place.”

“What do you mean?”

"This café itself is a form of love to me. All the emotions I experience here every day came to become my 'Love'"

I just stared at him, confused. Noticing that I didn't have anything to add, he continued, “Sitting in this café, every day, I get to see and know all sorts of people, though most of them are my regulars.”

He looked around, the white arching walls and glistening surface, “Their lives, their stories, the interactions with them... this place has made me the person who I am today.”

“So you are like a silent listener?”

“You can say that. That and also the owner of this place.” He waited a bit, maybe for me to laugh or something. The blank stare on my face made him hump, "I have seen all sorts of people from around the town visiting my café... some young, some old, some in love, some in delusion... and even some bearing something painful in their hearts. Not everyone opens up, but I'd get the chance to have small talks with many of them."

His light brown eyes played like a projector filming through countless of his memories, as he put his words over his sleeves. “And through their stories, you can get to know them far better than simply being with them. And just sometimes, some stories even move you far more deeply than one could imagine.”

“Stories that move you, it sounds kind of fun.”

“From all these stories I had come to learn one thing in my life...” He cleared his throat before continuing, “People don't come to love themselves unless someone shows them the love back. And people also don't come to hate themselves, unless someone shows them that hate back. One way or the other, our lives are always finding something in the lives of those around us..."

"Depending on others, is that what you mean?"

"Don't get me wrong, young man. A person can prefer to live by themselves, alone, secluded. But flowers won't bloom in a life like that, even after how many springs pass."

This old man is really quite mysterious, as hearing him speak was like knots being tied in my ears. "The world is not what we make of it, rather it’s the world, and everyone around us, who makes who we are.”

“Once I had three customers. Teenagers studying in high school. They had different lives, and different goals, but at the end entering into each other's lives, they changed each other as well as themselves in ways they never realized themselves. In the end, there is no life without clinging onto one another, without the beetle and bird, without leaf or cloud."

"Is that why you were asking me about ‘love’?"

He seemed quite mused, “Do you want to hear the story then, young man?”

"Um... sure. I'll be glad to."

"Then before I begin my story, would you mind joining me for a moment?" He stood up, implying that I should follow him, even before I could respond. I obliged, trying to understand his next move.

We approached a small bookshelf that stood out against the varnished red wall. It held a collection of books and magazines, with his fingers gliding over the covers before settling on a worn, well-preserved notebook. Its cover bore the words "Memory Lane" in broad blue letters. Other similar notebooks on the shelf caught my sight.

Curious, I asked, "What is this?"

Though deeply immersed in the notebook's pages, Mr. Aubert replied, "Take a look."

I turned my attention to an attached photograph and what seemed like a diary entry. I'd seen something similar the last time I was at a café back in New York.

The picture appeared to have been taken here, but quite a long time ago, and the café looked entirely different then. Three students—a girl and two boys—sat side by side at a table, their matching uniforms unmistakable. High scholars, what it seemed like, maybe from a nearby high school. And underneath the photo was written,

"I wish we could stay like this forever."