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.

Whispers filled the air in Camden, an unmissable destination on every visitor's bucket list. Crystal Sky.

After a long stroll through the town, I discovered the reason behind its fame. It was a lazy afternoon when I finally arrived, and the neon signboard shimmered above me, its freeform blues dancing against the smoky sky. The silhouettes of birds with outstretched wings adorned the heavens, as if embarking on their final journey homeward.

As I entered, the jingling bells announced my presence to everyone present there. Despite the small-town setting, the café bustled with activity, with the occasional sound of footsteps and clattering cups filling the air, accompanied by the sweet aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

Amongst the crowd, one person seemed to take notice of my arrival—a well-dressed elderly man in black. He approached me after I had secured an empty table to the right, politely asking if he could join me.

"Of course, you're welcome," I replied, 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.

"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."

"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," I replied, extending my hand.

"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. Though not my forte, I found myself captivated by his charm.

"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. Quiet places 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.

Following back to the question he had asked me. "So, did you come up with an answer?"

“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."