1 - Morning Ritual

Every Monday you see her sitting in the cafe. She slowly drinks her coffee. Her eyes are closed when she drinks. A smile appears faintly at the corners of her eyes. Her hair is gray, falling softly around her ears, not touching her shoulders. She goes by the name of Mara, but most people don’t know that.

The cafe is bustling with activity, but the lady is in her own world. No one drinks coffee anymore. Everyone orders chai lattes or curcuma-infused milk or herbal teas. Coffee was the drug of the past century. A symbol of oppression, slavery, colonialism. Just pure capitalistic stink. Society moved on from this. We are better now, say the youth, while slurping their sugar infested teas cultivated by some poor farmer in Brazil, with the mandatory drop of almond milk grown in California, where the shanty towns are regularly deprived of water in order to meet the artificially high demand of plant-based milk.

Outside the cafe the cars silently hover by. It's a busy morning, but not loud. The nightly scheduled rain cooled down the air and washed the thin film of dust off the manicured streets. The pavements have finally been taken out, liberating space for parking. A neat row of electric scooters line up in front of the cafe. Each personalized to the current preferences and styles of their owner.

At the counter, a small queue is forming behind a young woman with long brown hair, summer blue fingernails topped with glitter. Unaware of the angry stares behind her she continues her conversation "You know, I'll go to the surgery tomorrow. All this stress from work has me reaching out for one too many chocolate-infused gluten free cookies. And my boyfriend, don't let me get started on him!" She tossed her hair, but before she could go on talking about him, the barista confirmed her order.

"Chai-latte with extra brown sugar. One chocolate-infused gluten free cookie. To go. €10,49."

She locked in the eyes of the smiling face to the left of her, her eyes lining up with the two red dots on the screen. The price flashed once, her account statement blinking at the top right corner. "Confirm" she voiced, her account statement updated, and a warning appeared. She sighed. Her drink budget nearly consumed and not even halfway through the month.

"Anyway", she turned back to the barista, "my dad set the budgets far too low. He’s so detached from reality, it’s not even funny. I'm gonna have a word with him". She threw the barista a kiss, who motionless swiveled his metallic face and robotic arm to the next client.

The lady at the front of the cafe is dipping her finger in the cinnamon-free milk foam. She takes no pleasure in those gimmicks that are supposed to enhance flavors but in truth distract from the core. Out of an old habit, when people used to man cafes and you could have a conversation with the barista, she carries her empty mug to the counter. The barista, confused about the appearance of a person with a mug who isn't standing in the line, takes 10 seconds to log an edge error case.

With the confidence of someone who has lived their life, the lady walks into the street whose pavement is no more, and strolls through the cars and electric scooters. A young lady who scoffs at her is greeted with the age-old gesture of "mind your own business".

2 - Night distractions

"Normally these stories begin with "I remember this day just like it was yesterday". But that would be lying. To whom I'll be lying is an unexplored question, but a lie for sure.

I don't remember the day. I don't remember making the decision. It just happened. I stopped smiling. I see the question popping out of your eyes, young Maud. Never laughed? you are wondering.

Of course, I laughed. And smiled. I'm a socially well-adjusted human being after all. I know what is supposed to be funny, when and how to slowly make a smile grow on my face. But most humans are too much in their phones to recognize a real smile. Thanks to generative art and deep fake videos, most haven't seen a real smile for several years.”

Mara paused for a second and looked at her young listener.

“I’m talking about smiling with my heart. I know you don’t know that expression, your parents never taught you. I’ll promise you the day you smile with your heart, you will know that you are truly smiling. You'll feel it. It's more of a feeling than a muscle movement. The observable smile is just contractions of a specific series of muscles. You can train that. You can train everything: Muscles, mind and machines. But what you can't train is to feel fake emotions. Sensations are real.

Neuroscientists will tell you that emotions are just a brain signal. Your fear, ecstasy, thrill, pain, and love. All just electronic signals in your brain. Put an electrode at the right point, smash some electricity into your brain, and you'll feel the same thing. They tricked enough people into this lie. Because a lie it is. It helps sell their pills and hats and apps. A pill to lift you up, a downer to fake depression - gets you out of boring sex with your bland partner or punching holographic keys on your non-existing keyboard for your narcissistic boss."

Mara laughed, wrinkles criss-crossing her face. It sounded like a thousand glass pearls falling to the ground. “Don’t tell your parents I said that.”

Mara paused and looked outside the window. A new scene just appeared. Waves rolling softly onto the beach, some birds flying in the sky without moving forwards and a lonely palm tree at the left edge of the window. The sky is artificially deep blue, the sand golden yellow. Perfected to the last detail to mirror happiness, success and the abstract idea of "I made it".

"How do you know that you don't smile?" Maud asked. Her parents dropped her off at Mara, the old neighbor. Like every time Maud was half-sitting, half-lying in the nook of the old couch. Behind her a tower of pillows. It always takes some time to arrange them in a comfortable position. Her parents' couch was soft and smooth. As soon as you sit on it, its shape morphs adapting to your body. At home, there was no resistance, no friction. But at Mara’s, Maud always struggled a bit to get it right. Every time, one pillow falls off. After some huffing and ruffling, she finally sinks in them with a smile. One that has glitter in the eyes and comes from the heart.

Mara looked at Maud, not yet a teenager but not anymore a girl. That weird time where nothing fits, nothing works, nothing seems right, everything unreachable. "I couldn't write," Mara answered. " To be precise, the words that appeared on the screen blinked but remained silent. They didn't speak to me!"

"But letters don't speak!" Maud exclaimed

"Ah, child of this age, letters do speak. Your hands are just a vehicle, a tool, for your mind. And even your mind is just a vehicle, a tool, for thoughts to pass through. Your mind is like a blender where all these thoughts are mixed up, chopped up and re-arranged to a new soup..."

Mara paused for a moment. "No, that's the wrong image. Point is, words speak, or used to speak to me. The day I realized they remained muted is the day I realized I hadn't smiled in a long time.” Apparently changing the subject, Mara asked “Do you know The Neverending Story?".

"yeah, I saw the movie."

Mara scoffed, "No not the movie! The book you digitized illiterate child! Did you never read the book in school? What about Momo from Michael Ende?"

Maud, too scared to reply, barely shook her head.

Mara slowly got off her grandmother’s chair, an old wooden instrument that creaked with every movement Mara made. For Maud it looked like an ancient toy. You can rock yourself forwards and backwards on it, without pressing a button. Like by magic after putting some pressure on the little piece of wood at the bottom of it. The more pressure you put, the harder you went forward and backward. Mara told her these aren't produced anymore. Too dangerous. Could fall off and hurt yourself. She said that with a strict, sarcastic voice, the voice she used to make fun of rules and adults.

When Mara came back she had a book in her hand. It had a yellow cover with a black and white painting. You could see a girl on it. After rearranging her pillow, Mara looked at her watch "Your parents said 2 hours, didn't they? We both know it's gonna be more and you'll be sleeping here tonight" Maud nodded. Mara was right. It would be a miracle if her parents would come back after 2 hours. She had everything she needed in Mara's place to spend a night or two here.

"When someone reads you a story, you listen carefully to the words. You make a world inside of your mind. You picture Momo and her friends. And most importantly: You interrupt and ask questions about the story."

After those instructions, Mara opened the book and began reading.

3 - Bedtime

Sleep wasn’t coming. Maud knew this. Her phone was in the living room. Mara had vandalized all the plugs by filling them up with Gorilla super glue and glitter. The plugs glittered at night. Like a little night sky in the room. Maud tossed the top blanket to the side. It was an old wool blanket, heavy and very scratchy.

The first night she was staying over at Mara’s she couldn’t sleep. After trying out everything, even sleeping with clothes, she finally woke up Mara asking for a real blanket. It took Mara some time to grasp the situation. “A real blanket?” she exclaimed “What you got there is a real blanket. It’s not a synthetic fiber with wires to keep you cool or hot depending on a myriad of factors. This is the real deal!” That night Maud could feel tears. She was missing her parents, her stuffed animal ice bear, Mara’s apartment smelled funny, the glitter plug teased her. In her young mind her world was breaking apart. She was scared that there would be no tomorrow, or worse, she would have to live with this old neighbor her whole life.

Mara grumbled “Don’t listen to the words, listen to silence”, and got up. She dragged a chair to her wardrobe and carefully stepped on it. High above, on the top shelf, she pulled out a baby blue sheet. Its border had a fine pattern of stars and animals, dancing with each other. “Follow me” she ordered Maud and light footed like a cat went to Maud’s room. By the time Maud arrived, her bed was freshly made. The scratchy wool blanket was still on her bed, but now the blue sheet protected her.

“If you are too hot, you kick the top blanket towards the bottom of your bed. If you are too cold, you pull the blanket over your chin and make yourself small. Like a bear going into hibernation.”

That night when Maud went back into bed, it felt transformed. Nothing itched anymore, and a sweet heavy smell engulfed her. She gazed at the patterns of stars and animals. A bear was looking at her. It winked.

Since that first night, Maud normally would fall asleep in a heartbeat. Tonight was different. With the heavy blanket at the end of the bed, Maud sat up. It was chilly. She never understood why Mara would not follow the default heating setting. Maud groped for her jumper and socks. She put them on and walked to the living room. Her phone had a program to help her sleep. After using it, she would wake up grumpy, but at least the night passed quickly. It’s the tossing and turning and thinking that Maud wanted to avoid.

Her phone was where she left it. Next to it the book about Momo and the gray men. Mara read half of it. Momo lost all her friends to the time thieves. The window in the living room was turned off. Maud saw the city for what it was: Grey blocks one after another. Tubes of wires going up and down, left and right. Criss-crossing the concrete walls. Far below her, closer to street level, she could make out the displays. One after another. Some flat, some curved. They emitted lights, flashing in multiple colors, always on ready to stamp their message of convenience into a passerby’s mind.

Maud reached out for her phone. She craved the sleeping hypnotizer app. The combination of music and smooth talking voice always had the desired effect on her. It’s even better with the pill her parents gave her. This must have been how it was in the wambo, the sugatory machine.

Her eyes were heavy from sleep but her mind still raced at a thousand miles per hour. Questions kept bubbling up. Who was that girl from the story and why did she live alone? Who are those gray men and what do they want with all that time?

“Why is everything gray?” she mumbled, while taking the book and curling up on that old-school couch that kept its shape and didn’t automatically bring comfort. The friction brough by seeking comfort was weirdly relaxing.

Maud struggled with the reading. Mara did it without effort. Every character had its own voice. Her intonation changed. When Mara read, Maud could feel the story. Now, alone, she fought with the words. Her books read to her. She didn’t have to string the letters together.

4 - Parting

A door creaked and was carefully closed. Objects were softly put on a table, and it smelled like coffee. Mara was up preparing breakfast for Maud. The coffee, of course, was for her. The school bus would come soon, but she didn’t hurry to wake up the child. She turned on the windows, but set the program to night time to keep the room in a dim light.

She poured the black liquid from her old moka maker into an olive green cup. It was chipped lightly at the rim, but Mara didn’t care to replace it. “It still serves its purpose”, she would explain. Coffee mugs didn’t need to be beautiful but hold coffee. And have a history. This mug had history, it’s brown interior attesting to this. When Mara traveled, it traveled.

Somewhere a shrill alarm rang. It jerked Maud out of her dream. She was following a giant purple turtle, moving at snail space. In her dream, she was searching, but can’t remember what she was looking for. It wasn’t something that she lost, but a feeling she never experienced.

The shrill sound drilled further into Maud’s brain, until she recognized it for what it was: Her alarm to get out of the house. Now! 1 minute and 50 seconds before the bus is there. It will take her 30 seconds to get downstairs. If the lift is there. Which is never the case in the morning rush hour.

“I’m late! Why did you not wake me” she yelled at Mara, who didn’t care at all. Maud was too stressed to explain the excruciating shame of being late. Mara wouldn’t get it anyway. Time doesn’t exist in her world.

“Where is my…” she cried out, but Mara interrupted her. “At the door. Everything is packed. Drink the smoothie in the elevator. Just leave the glass there, I’ll get it. Go now. Bye.” With no time to counter back that a smoothie isn’t a breakfast, Maud stormed out. The elevator was waiting for her, doors open. Impatiently, Maud hit the ground floor bottom several times and nipped at the bright purple smoothie. It was rich, but not icky like her parents do them when they are on their super-healthy trip. It tasted like silk and dreams, and tickled her brain awake. She ran out of their block at the exact moment the bus stopped in front of her door. Perfect timing.

Her friend gave her a side-eye look. “Rolled out of bed, didn’t you? Your parents out again?” They remained silent for the rest of the journey. Locked into the school’s network, it’s too hard to pay attention to words and feelings. Everything is picked up, stored in data lakes and analyzed to customize their daily learning plan, food intake and exercise schedule.

The gray square buildings making up their school loomed ahead of them. The bus entered the tunnel, plunging the kids in pitch darkness. Out the other side, the lush green and deep yellow of the learning institute always stung their eyes. Smiles appeared on the other kids’ faces, mirroring the expression when an uplifting drug hits your nervous system. Maud kept gloomily looking outside. She was wondering what happens if you sit still for too long, what “too long” is and if it even exists. Her friend pulled her off her chair and threw her another side-eye.

Like snakes coming out of a burrow, thousands of children exited hundreds of buses in neat little rows and disappeared into colorful buildings. At the tiny entrance door, each kid locked their eyes into a smiling robot face, confirming their identity, and receiving their schedule.

Maud had to confirm twice, her eye scan hitting an error on the first read. The screening machine filled a bug report on the spot. Maud’s daily schedule gained a red dot at the top. The boy behind her, barely audible, sucked in the air.

A small group of students gathered in room BD178234 for history. Maud took her assigned seat. A movie started playing. At regular intervals, questions popped up and the kids individually answered them. After fifteen minutes the movie stopped, and the screens in the kid’s desk lit up. Except for Maud’s. Maud looked at the deep darkness of her black screen. A red dot blinked at the top. Around her, the others were continuing the history class adapted to their answers. A perfectly customized class, allowing every child to advance at their speed, reaching the exact level of knowledge deemed necessary for them.

Maud had never seen a black display. It didn’t react to her input, but remained mute. “What would Mara do?” she caught herself thinking. The black display reflected her face. She closed one eye, the mirror-image Maud closed an eye. She smiled at herself, observing how her face changed, raised an eyebrow and lowered the other. She stretched out her tongue, while pulling her eye-lids down. The face in the display mirrored her movements. She burst out in laughter, startling the other kids who shrieked up and with zombie eyes searched for where the noise of freedom came from.

Maud swiftly lowered her head, her screen turning on in the same moment. The video was replaying the sequence she saw earlier. This time she answered the questions in the proper way, and her program continued flawlessly.

It was dark when she was finally home again. Stepping outside the bus she craned to look up at her building, trying to find the windows of her place. But a thousand black eyes stared back at her. Stepping into the elevator she wondered if her parents would be home tonight. The door to her place was closed. There was no sign of life coming from it.

A faint bit of light came from Mara’s door. She heard the noise of boxes being moved, and doors closing. She knocked faintly. It was the first time she knocked at her door. Normally, her parents would do the knocking before hitting the town.

Nothing.

She knocked again, this time a bit louder.

The noise inside Mara’s apartment stopped for a split second, then continued with the same intensity.

Maud glared back at her apartment. A black door. No light shining through the cracks. It will be dark and silent. The windows playing a scene from a long-forgotten kids movie. Plates and mugs on the kitchen counter, no one cleaned up since yesterday.

Inspecting Mara’s door, she wondered what she was doing. Did she want Mara to open the door? Maud didn’t want to admit it. This was a daunting thought that would only lead to a lot more uncomfortable thoughts. Maud pushed it swiftly aside. She could just ask for the book they read yesterday. Asking for it would make Mara happy.

She knocked again; this time with a bit more force than before. The door swung open “If you want something, you need to believe that you can get it. Don’t knock like a scared rabbit, fleeing at the first sound. No one is gonna take you seriously like that.” Mara was standing there with brown pants and deep green sneakers. She had a black top on, her hair in a ponytail. A lot of strains came loose. Next to the door a black backpack, a jumper and jacket thrown over it. Her coffee mug was precariously placed on top.

Her face softened. “Your parents let me know they’ll be back in a couple of hours. I prepared dinner for you. You can take it over to your place.” She disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a purple bag. Looking into the bag, Maud saw a covered glass dish with yellow rice, red bell peppers, chickpeas and some brown pieces. Lamb. On top of the dish was a little plastic jar with chopped spring onions, and a brown paper bag. A raspberry muffin. Her favorite.

Maud looked up at Mara, the backpack on the floor and the tote bag in her hand. “Child, don’t just stand there, the food will get cold, go on, go home.” Mara gently shoved her away, and waved goodbye. With a thug, the door closed. Maud was standing in the corridor. Her school bag on one shoulder, the tote bag in her hand. She could smell the muffin. Mara must have timed the baking perfectly. It was only then that she noticed how hungry she was. Another time she glanced back at her door. It was still dark. Inside it was still cold and silent and loveless.

With her free hand she pounded at the door.

“Are you leaving me?” Maud said when Mara opened the door.

“No, I’m going on a journey.” Mara replied.

“So, you are leaving me” Maud said with a fire in her voice she didn’t recognize.

“No, I’m going on a journey.” Mara replied mechanically, creases forming around her eyes.

Maud, all the newfound strength gone as quick as it came, blinked, and lowered her head. Mara, one hand on the door knob remained silent. She knew Maud was looking for words to describe the feeling that was raging inside of her.

Still with her head down inspecting the gray floor, Maud managed to ask for the book. When she lifted her head to see Mara’s reaction, she saw a sad smile take shape around her eyes. “I put the book in your school bag. I wasn’t sure when you’ll be back. It’s yours.” And with this she slowly closed the door.

Maud, defeated, turned to her place. She grabbed a spoon out of the kitchen drawer, and went into her room. Picking the darkest corner, she sat down on the fake wooden floor, avoiding the comfort of her bed, and began to eat. When the hunger subsided, giving place to the warmth of savoring your favorite meal, she grabbed the book out of her school bag and continued the story.

5 - At Momo’s

It was a fresh winter morning and Maud was standing behind the counter. The windows were open to let the fresh air in, proven to be a better source of air circulation than fans. The couches and chairs had colorful warm blankets for guests to wrap themselves in. No one should feel cold at Maud’s place. She also changed the summer cholas to winter Pantoffels. Flip-flops and slippers being inadequate words to describe the sentiments of summer and winter footwear, she appropriated words from other cultures she came across in her reading.

She exclusively served coffee with milk or milk foam, and hot chocolate. Guests could decide on the proportion of coffee to milk. But that was it. No alternative milk or flavored syrup, or cinnamon powder to top the drink off. The menu was the same, every day. The only exception she allowed was “coffee con hielo”, coffee with an ice cube, on the hottest days of summer.

She was refused financing because of her insistence to keep the menu small and to not allow for any customization. Picking the proportion of coffee and milk was enough in her eyes.

Her cafe was quirky: Chairs and benches were built like an ancient amphitheater facing the huge glass windows. The counter was squeezed to the side of it. The walls were made to look like a forest, with painted trees and branches sticking out. She tried to have little birds nesting in her fake wood, but the bird poop was a problem.

To order a drink, guests had to cross the amphitheater. The floor was covered in thick purple carpets. A sign at the door informed guests to take off their shoes, place them in a little cubicle and take out a pair of cholas or Pantoffels, depending on the season, from a big brown wicker basket.

First-time guests always paused. Leaving directly drew attention to them. Above the door was a little chain that chirped every time the door opened or closed. Nevertheless, some left, not ready to be weird. Others, intrigued by a coffee shop that was not ordinary, began to search for matching footwear. This was a hopeless task. Regular guests were convinced that matching shoes didn’t exist in Maud’s place. You take what you got, and you make the best of it.

Maud’s place had no plugs. No tables. No screens. It had books. All sorts of books. In all sizes and colors and languages. Everywhere. You could sit on a pile of dictionaries, or rest your cup on them. And, of course, you could read them. Regulars received a special bookmark, or as many as they needed. They’d place them in a book. The book’s title and the page would then be recorded in Momo’s, an app Maud developed to help her guests keep track of their books. After seeing guests being frustrated and sad that they couldn’t find the book they were reading the other day, she felt devastated. This is not how someone should feel in her place.

A transparent chip-foil was taped on each book’s cover. This could locate a book with a precision of 10 centimeters. Precise enough for the negative energy thermometer to drop to below-average levels for her city. But not precise enough for guests to not have to ask others for help.

The guests’ bookmarks were astonishingly simple: A simple piece of cardboard paper the kids from the nearby boarding school decorated. Maud added the chip-foil and laminated it. By now, guests could order the bookmark via the Momo app, pick their own design, and pay the kid. Apparently, there was a secondary market for these bookmarks, but Maud never investigated it further.

Using the Momo app, guests could locate the book. If their bookmark got displaced, the last read page was saved in the app. For those who enabled it, they could see a list of guests who are also reading the book. The idea was that guests could coordinate better when they’d come to the cafe so that whenever you are there your book is free for you to grab and read. But guests never used it like that. They planned book-clubs, read-aloud sessions, and dinners themed around books they were reading.

Chirp-chirp went the door. A gust of cold wind entered the room. The leaves on the nests and in the pages rustled for a moment louder than the conversations between guests. An old lady with a black backpack, an olive green chipped cup dangling on a hook at one side, brown trousers and deep green sneakers entered the room. Her face was brown, the nose red from the cold. Without kneeling down or holding on for support she slipped out of her sneakers. She did not fish for a pair of house slippers, but crossed the arena in her socks.

“One coffee. Black. Please” the guests requested from Maud.

“Of course” Maud replied “Where are you coming from”. She had a habit of chatting with her clients, taking time to get to know them.

“That’s a difficult question to answer. Right now I’ve come from the station. Do you mind pouring the coffee into my travel mug? It gives me a sense of familiarity and home when I’m on the road. You see it’s the one thing that has remained stable throughout my life. People come and go…” she trailed off

Seeing the mug, Maud swiftly looked up. She waited for this moment her whole life. Albeit, she’s still young, but waiting takes a toll. A seed of bitterness had been planted so many years ago and try as she might, she never got fully rid of it. Like weeds it comes up and if you aren't careful it takes over everything.

“People don’t come and go. You come and go. You left me. “ her voice was barely audible. She fought with the tears. Here she was standing, the person responsible for whom she became, the one who gave her the love of books and taught her to cherish time and friction. The one who could make black and white letters on a page come alive better than any tech hallucination. And she just wanted to throw herself at her, hug her and ask about her adventures.

She poured the black coffee into the olive green chipped cup.

“On the house” Maud said, and delicately pushed the travel mug over the counter towards Mara. Without waiting for a reply she turned around and busied herself with her espresso machine. It was old and needed love and care.