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The café wasn't easy to find. Miranda walked past it twice before realizing the faded wooden sign matched the address on her phone.
She turned into the narrow alley, snow crunching beneath the heels of her boots as the cold nipped at her face. She pulled the lapels of her coat a little closer, her breath disappearing into the white air.
She stopped outside the cafe and could see through the window that there were only three tables.
An elderly couple shared a slice of cake near the front, while a young man sat alone in the corner with a paperback and a cup of coffee.
She still wasn’t entirely sure why she’d flown halfway across the world for a story that might not even be real.
A journalist she met at a reception in London mentioned the place over too many glasses of whisky. According to him, there was a café in Tokyo where people could visit the past.
Miranda almost ignored him.
Then she remembered Andrea mentioning the same café many many years earlier.
She'd been in Tokyo writing a travel feature about the city's quieter neighborhoods. Over dinner one evening, she excitedly told Miranda about a little café where, according to the locals, people could travel through time.
It was utterly ridiculous.
She stepped inside before she could reconsider.
A small brass bell chimed overhead.
Warm air wrapped around her, carrying the scent of coffee and old, dark wood.
A young woman behind the counter looked up and bowed.
“Irasshaimase!”
Miranda offered a small bow in return.
“I have a reservation.”
The woman checked a small notebook.
“Miranda… Priestly?”
“Yes.”
She smiled politely.
“Please.”
She led Miranda toward a table at the back of the café.
Miranda stopped.
A woman was already sitting there. She wore a flowing white dress, her head bowed over the book in her hands. The coffee beside her was untouched.
Miranda glanced at the waitress.
“I believe this table is occupied.”
The young woman nodded.
“Yes.”
Miranda waited for an an explanation.
But the waitress just said, “Please wait.”
Miranda looked back at the woman at the table. She never looked up once.
The café carried on around her as though nothing was unusual.
After several minutes, the woman closed her book and stood.
Without so much as a glance at anyone, she disappeared toward the restroom.
The waitress stepped aside and turned to Miranda.
“Now.”
“But the lady..” Miranda hesitated, gesturing to the lady who went to the restroom.
“Please.” The waitress urged her to sit.
Miranda slipped out of her coat and draped it over the chair beside her before taking a seat. Meltwater gathered beneath the hem, forming a small puddle on the wooden floor.
The waitress placed a fresh cup of coffee in front of her.
“When coffee is… cold…”
She pointed gently toward the cup.
“…you come back.”
“And until then?”
A small smile.
“You talk.”
Miranda nodded once.
"There are rules."
The waitress held up a finger.
"What has happened... will still happen."
Miranda's expression didn't change.
"So nothing I say here will alter the future."
The waitress smiled.
"No."
A second finger.
"You cannot leave this chair."
Miranda glanced at the empty seat opposite her.
"So I remain here."
"Yes."
A third finger.
"You only meet person who has come to this café."
A fourth finger.
"You finish coffee..."
Again, she pointed to the cup.
"...before is cold."
"And if I don't?"
The waitress's smile disappeared.
"You stay."
Miranda frowned.
"Stay?"
"Forever."
The waitress spoke one last time.
"Remember."
She gave Miranda a long, searching look.
" Drink... before coffee is cold. "
Then she bowed quietly and walked away.
Miranda let out a breath and wrapped both hands around the warm cup.
Then ---
A chair scraped softly across the floor.
Miranda looked up.
“There you are.” Andrea smiled.
“I was beginning to think you got lost.”
Everything else disappeared.
Miranda's gaze drifted over the familiar details. The dark hair tucked behind one ear. The tiny scar beside her eyebrow. That faded navy sweater she'd been wearing for years, which Miranda privately hoped she'd replace one day.
Andrea’s smile faltered.
“What?”
Miranda couldn’t answer.
“…Miranda?”
“Hey.”
She leaned forward, concern replaced amusement in an instant.
“What’s wrong?”
Miranda just stared at her.
Andrea reached across the table and took Miranda's hands in both of hers.
"You're freezing."
She lifted them toward her face, breathed warm air into them, then rubbed them gently between her palms.
Andrea’s gaze landed on the coat draped over the chair.
“Honestly, how long were you walking around out there?”
“I’m not sure.” Miranda answered, finally finding her voice.
“You should’ve worn the red scarf.”
“What?” Miranda blinked.
“The cashmere one.” Andrea replied. “It covers more of your face.”
Miranda let out the smallest breath of laughter. “I still have it.”
Andrea looked at her confused. “Of course you do. You wore it just a few weeks back.”
Without another word, Andrea reached for the sugar bowl. Two cubes landed in Miranda’s coffee.
She stirred them in and pushed the cup back across the table.
“There.”
Miranda looked at it.
“I don’t take sugar.”
“Since when?”
Then recognition crossed her face.
“Oh. I forgot.”
“You only take sugar when you’re upset.”
Miranda looked down at the coffee.
“Really?”
“You keep forgetting.”
Andrea smiled.
“So I remember.”
The waitress returned carrying a small plate of castella cake.
Without thinking, Andrea slid the larger slice onto Miranda’s plate.
Miranda watched the movement.
“You always do that.”
“Give me the bigger piece.”
Andrea looked at the cake and laughed.
“I guess I’m nicer than I thought.”
“Yes, you are.” Miranda said quietly. “You don’t give yourself enough credit.”
Andrea looked at her for a moment.
“You’re talking like we’ve known each other forever.”
Miranda’s smile faded.
“It feels that way.”
“Does it?”
Miranda nodded once.
Andrea picked up her fork and took a bite of cake before looking back up.
“Well.. I don’t mind. I’m actually pleased.”
“Because.. Well..I was hoping this might become something.”
Miranda felt her throat tighten.
“What do you mean?”
Andrea smiled, almost shyly.
“You.”
A pause.
“Us.”
Miranda closed her eyes.
Twenty-three years.
Sunday mornings with the newspaper spread across the table.
Christmases at Cornelia Street.
Arguments over that impossible sweater.
The two of them dancing in the music room while the twins played Tchaikovsky’s Sleeping Beauty on the piano.
Whispered promises in the dark.
An entire life.
All of it waiting ahead of the woman sitting across from her.
“Miranda?” Andrea asked tentatively.
“Yes, darling?” The endearment slipped out of habit.
If Andrea noticed, she didn’t show it.
“You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one that says you’re somewhere else. Where did you go just now?”
“We’ve been here before. In Tokyo.. together”
Andrea searched Miranda’s face for a long moment.
The smile she’d worn since sitting down disappeared, replaced by quiet confusion.
“Huh? We have?”
Miranda nodded.
Andrea laughed softly.
“I think I would’ve remembered a trip to Tokyo with you.”
Miranda bit her cheek.
“I’m remembering things you haven’t lived yet.”
Andrea didn’t interrupt.
“You once told me I always started stories in the middle.”
A faint smile returned to Andrea’s face.
“That does sound like me.”
“But you need to help me out here because I’m really confused.”
Miranda took a slow breath.
“Okay. I’ll do better.”
“We fall in love.”
Andrea blinked.
“We build a life together.”
“We get married.”
"You're joking," Andrea said, staring at her in disbelief.
Then, unexpectedly, she laughed.
“You really commit to a bit.”
Miranda smiled sadly.
“I know exactly where you hide your passport.”
Andrea’s laughter stopped.
“You can’t sleep unless one foot is outside the blanket.”
“You organize the bookshelves whenever you’re anxious.”
"You cry every time we watch Dumbo," Miranda said. "And Baby Mine... I've never known you to make it through that song without crying."
She hesitated.
“You also had a rather enormous crush on your grade school librarian. Mrs. Betty.”
The color drained from Andrea’s face.
“How did you…”
She stopped herself, then shook her head.
“I’ve never told anyone that.”
"I know." Miranda's voice softened.
"People always assumed I was the one with the fondness for classical music."
" It was you. You loved Satie's Gymnopédies, but Clair de Lune was always your favorite."
"The twins played it when..." Miranda fell silent.
"...Nevermind." She lowered her eyes.
"Forget I said that."
Andrea let out a disbelieving breath, her left hand covering her mouth.
“If this is real…”
She hesitated.
“…then you know everything.”
Miranda met her gaze.
“I know almost everything.”
Andrea searched Miranda’s face, as though weighing whether she truly wanted the answer to the question forming in her mind.
“So…”
"...Do we make it?”
Miranda’s heart lurched.
“I mean…” She laughed awkwardly.
“Do we stay together?”
Miranda answered immediately.
“There was never anyone else.”
“Really?” Andrea’s eyes widened.
“You were the love of my life.”
"There was never another home after you."
Andrea looked away. A blush crept across her cheeks.
“I wasn’t expecting that.”
“Neither was I.”
“You’ve become surprisingly direct.”
“I’m running out of time.” Miranda's words slipped out.
Andrea frowned. She followed Miranda’s gaze to the coffee.
The steam had thinned noticeably.
“Is that important?”
Miranda nodded.
"More than you know."
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“What question?”
“Do we make it?”
Miranda reached across the table and brushed the ends of Andrea's hair between her fingers. It was a gesture she'd repeated so often over the years.
“Yes,” she said quietly.
“We make it.”
Andrea beamed.
For a moment, she looked exactly as Miranda remembered on their wedding day.
“So…”
Andrea rested her chin on her hand and regarded Miranda thoughtfully.
“We get what.. Fifteen? Twenty years?”
Miranda smiled in return.
“Twenty-three.”
Andrea’s eyebrows lifted.
“I’d say that’s impressive.”
“It wasn’t enough.” The answer came too quickly.
Andrea reached across the table and squeezed Miranda’s hand.
“No.”
“It never would’ve been.”
Andrea tilted her head.
"Can I ask you something?"
"What was your favorite memory of me?"
Miranda blinked.
"One memory?"
"You only have time for one."
Miranda stared at ceiling.
After a while she said,
"It wasn't our wedding."
Andrea looked mildly offended.
"Well, that's rude."
"It wasn't one of the Christmases or holidays. Or the day we moved into our home."
"It was an ordinary Tuesday."
"You've been working from home. I came downstairs looking for coffee.
You were standing barefoot in the kitchen, dancing terribly to music only you could hear while making blueberry pancakes."
Andrea laughed.
"Hey! I don't dance terribly."
"Oh you absolutely do."
"Again. Rude."
"You saw me watching." Miranda continued.
"You smiled.. Held out your hand..and for no reason whatsoever, we danced in the middle of the kitchen while breakfast burned."
"That was you favorite?"
Miranda nodded.
"Because nothing remarkable happened."
"It was simply a Tuesday."
"And I remember thinking.. if every ordinary day with you feels this happy, then I've already lived an extraordinary life."
Tears filled Andrea's eyes as she took in Miranda's words.
She bit her lip. Then, very quietly, she asked,
“How does it end?”
Miranda closed her eyes. She’d hoped they wouldn’t get there. Not yet.
But the coffee continued to cool between them.
And there was no time left to spend pretending they had forever.
Miranda lowered her eyes to the cup.
The steam was barely visible now.
She lifted it and took a slow sip.
“It ends suddenly.”
“There isn’t a long illness.”
“I leave for work that morning.”
“You complain that I’ve forgotten my scarf.”
Andrea laughed under her breath.
“You make me go back for it.”
“And you listen?”
“You were very persuasive.”
“You kissed me goodbye.”
“And then?”
Miranda’s voice caught.
“I never saw you alive again.”
“So…” Andrea swallowed.
“…I die that day.”
“A drunk driver.”
The café seemed impossibly still. Outside, snow continued to fall.
Andrea stared through the window for a long time.
When she finally spoke, her voice was steady.
“I always thought I’d be eighty.”
Miranda almost laughed.
“So did I.”
“I had plans.”
“..I wanted to grow old with you.”
Miranda closed her eyes.
“I know.”
Andrea looked back at her.
Then, unexpectedly, she smiled.
“It happened.”
Miranda frowned.
“What?”
“I grew old with you.”
“Not in years.”
“But in life.”
“We got to have twenty-three years.”
Miranda looked away.
“It wasn’t enough.”
“No.” Andrea nodded.
“..It wasn’t.”
She lifted Miranda’s hand and pressed a kiss against her knuckles.
“But it was ours.”
Miranda’s composure slipped. Tears rolled silently down her cheek.
Andrea reached up and brushed them away with her thumb.
“I need you to hear something.”
Miranda nodded.
“I had a good life.”
“I fell in love.”
“I married the woman I wanted.”
“I built a home.”
“I traveled.”
“I got to wake up beside you.”
“And got to dance in the kitchen with you.”
She laughed lightly.
“I would’ve liked forty more years.”
“Maybe fifty.”
“But if that’s where my story ends…”
“…don’t let anyone tell you it was a sad one.”
Miranda shook her head.
“I can’t.”
“You can.” Andrea smiled.
“You were there.”
“You know how good it was.”
Miranda covered Andrea’s hand with her own.
“It was. I’d like to think we had the best life we could have made together.”
“So remember that.”
“Not how I died.”
“How I lived.”
Andrea glanced at the coffee.
“It’s getting cold.”
Miranda followed her gaze.
Andrea sighed.
“I’ve always hated saying goodbye.
“I usually make it awkward.”
Miranda laughed softly.
“You usually pretend you’re leaving, then come back because you’ve forgotten your keys.”
Andrea grinned.
“Or my wallet.”
“Or my phone.”
She shook her head.
“I sound exhausting.”
“You weren’t.”
A comfortable silence settled between them.
Andrea looked around the café.
“I wish I could remember this.”
Miranda looked at her.
“You won’t.”
“No. But you will.”
She stood and walked around the table.
Miranda watched her without moving.
Andrea scooted onto the chair beside her and slipped an arm around Miranda’s shoulders, drawing her gently against her.
The contact was so familiar that Miranda’s eyes closed for a moment. She tried to imprint the warmth, the weight, the quiet certainty of Andrea’s embrace into memory before time stole it away again.
Andrea rested her head lightly against Miranda’s.
“Thank you.”
Miranda frowned.
“For what?”
“For coming.”
Miranda turned to look at her.
“I didn’t come to tell you you were going to die.”
“I know.”
“I came because…”
Her voice faltered.
“…I wanted one more afternoon with you.”
Andrea’s eyes filled.
“I’m glad you came.”
She leaned over and kissed Miranda’s forehead.
The same kiss.
The one she gave after difficult meetings. Or bad days.
Miranda let out a shaky breath.
“I’ve missed that.”
“I know.”
Andrea smiled.
Miranda looked at her, confused.
Andrea tapped two fingers lightly against Miranda’s forehead.
“Every time you remembered me.”
New tears escaped before Miranda could stop it.
Andrea brushed them away again with her thumb.
“One last thing.”
Miranda nodded.
“When you leave here…”
“…buy yourself dessert once in a while.”
Miranda laughed through her tears.
“You choose that as your final advice?”
“You never order dessert.”
“Nonsense. Of course I do.”
“You steal mine.”
“Mm. Well...”
The coffee was rapidly losing its warmth.
Andrea glanced at the cup and turned toward Miranda.
She leaned in and kissed Miranda gently, her hands cradling Miranda’s face.
“It’s time.”
Miranda nodded.
“I love you, Andrea.”
“I know.”
Miranda laughed softly.
“Show-off.”
“I learned from the best.”
Andrea smiled.
“Drink your coffee.”
Miranda lifted the cup with unsteady hands and drank the last of the coffee.
When she lowered it, Andrea was still smiling at her.
“I love you, Miranda. Never forget that.”
In a blink, she was gone.
The waitress returned a few moments later. She gave Miranda a small, comforting smile and quietly cleared the table.
Miranda stood and slipped back into her coat. It was still damp where the snow had melted.
Outside, the cold greeted her again. Snow drifted through the narrow alley.
Miranda stood there for a long moment.
The city carried on, unaware that anything impossible happened inside the little café.
As she walked back toward the main road, the aroma of freshly steamed bread drifted from a neighborhood bakery across the street.
Behind the glass, rows of steamed buns filled with sweet bean paste were lined up in careful rows.
The aroma was oddly comforting.
Andrea would've gone inside without a second thought.
"When in Japan," she'd said once in Kyoto, "eat whatever the locals are lining up for."
Miranda crossed the street.