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Chiang Mai, 7:03 AM
The sky above Chiang Mai was a soft watercolor of gold and gray as the sun peeled its way through the early morning clouds.
The city was already stirring motorbikes revving down Nimmanhaemin Road, delivery trucks trundling along the narrow backstreets, and the scent of grilled pork and chili laced soup rising from street vendors carts like invisible smoke signals to the waking world.
In the middle of it all, tucked down a quiet alley painted with creeping bougainvillea and colorful murals, was a small café called
Cafe Lumière.
Saint liked to think of it as his sanctuary. He had opened the café two years ago, drawn to Chiang Mai’s quiet energy and dreamy streets lined with coffee shops and hidden art. He’d chosen the location on instinct, a little removed from the main strip, just quiet enough to feel like a secret.
He unlocked the front door at exactly seven each morning, always twenty minutes before the official opening time. The café was still dim inside, the light filtering softly through the slats of the high windows.
It was the only time of day when Saint had the space to move slowly, to breathe before the rush began.
He flipped on the lights, warm and golden and the café came alive, one soft glow at a time. Tables carved from reclaimed wood, shelves stacked with mismatched mugs, vines trailing from the ceiling like lazy green waterfalls.
A vintage jazz playlist started to hum quietly from the speakers, barely louder than the whirring of the espresso grinder.
Saint moved with practiced ease, grinding fresh beans, measuring out ingredients, checking the pastries delivered that morning flaky almond croissants, sugared muffins, a fresh batch of banana bread. He lit the single candle that sat at the corner table, a habit he couldn’t quite explain, especially since no one ever sat there.
At 7:10 AM, the front door chimed.
Saint looked up, surprised. His first regulars didn’t usually arrive until after 7:30. He expected maybe a tourist, lost and lured in by the hanging lights. But the man who stepped in was anything but lost.
Tall, elegant, dressed in a sleek, ash-gray overcoat despite the warmth. His dark hair was neatly styled, his jawline sharp, eyes clear and unwavering as they scanned the room. There was something about him that made Saint pause, a kind of quiet intensity, like the silence before a summer storm.
The man’s eyes landed on him.
“Are you open?”
Saint nodded, swallowing the instinct to smooth down his apron. “Technically… not until 7:30. But everything’s ready. Come in.”
The man smiled, just slightly.
“Then I’ll take a chance.”
He stepped up to the counter and looked at the chalkboard menu. “What do you recommend?”
Saint tilted his head. “Well, depends. Do you want something to wake you up… or something to calm you down?”
The man looked at him then not just glanced, but really looked. His gaze lingered, curious and steady.
“Calm.” he said. “Please.”
Saint offered a small, genuine smile.
“Alright. I’ve got just the thing.”
He turned toward the espresso machine, feeling that familiar rhythm settle in his bones. He decided on a lavender oat milk latte with a touch of wild honey, something floral, soft and grounding. The kind of drink that felt like a sigh.
Behind him, he heard the man move across the café. Chairs were still pushed in neatly, but he chose the corner table, the one with the flickering candle. Saint blinked. No one ever sat there.
He returned a few minutes later, placing the drink gently on the table. A small curl of steam rose from the cup.
“Lavender latte.” Saint said. “On the house.”
The man looked up at him, clearly surprised. “Why?”
Saint shrugged. “First guest of the day. It’s good luck.”
That earned him a smile. Wider this time, warm at the edges. “Then thank you.”
He picked up the cup, took a slow sip, and closed his eyes briefly, just long enough to let the flavour settle.
“This is amazing.” he said softly. “The kind of thing that makes you forget where you are.”
Saint felt heat rise to his ears.
“Glad you like it.”
The man looked at him again, then offered his hand. “I’m Shin.”
“Saint.”
Their hands touched, brief but steady. Saint felt a strange flutter in his chest.
Shin didn’t linger long. He finished his drink quietly, thanked Saint again, and left with a nod that felt almost reluctant. But the next morning, at exactly 7:10,he returned.
And the next.
And the next.
Every day, he sat at the same table. Ordered the same drink. Lavender latte, oat milk, just a touch of honey. Saint didn’t even ask anymore, he just made it when he heard the door chime. And each time, he placed the cup on Shin’s table with a little note written in black pen on the sleeve.
“Today feels like a soft jazz kind of morning.”
“Lavender reminds me of rainy afternoons.”
“You ever watch the city before it wakes up?”
Shin never said much about the notes but he never left them behind either. Saint caught him tucking them carefully into his coat pocket every time.
The other regulars began to notice.
“You got a secret admirer, Saint?”
“Your boyfriend?”
“Who’s the guy in the coat?”
Saint just smiled and shook his head. He didn’t have a name for what was happening, didn’t need one. There was something unspoken about their mornings, gentle, consistent and beautifully undefined.
One morning, about two weeks in, Shin arrived looking… tired. He still wore the coat, but his shoulders slumped ever so slightly. There was a tension around his eyes that hadn’t been there before.
Saint placed the usual drink on the table, along with a new note.
“Hope today is kinder to you.”
Shin stared at it for a long time. When Saint turned away, pretending to clean the counter, he saw Shin press the note to his chest for just a second before slipping it into his pocket.
That day, Shin lingered after he finished his drink. Saint was wiping down the counter when he approached.
“Saint.” he said, voice lower than usual.
“Can I ask something strange?”
Saint glanced up, intrigued.
“Strange is part of the job.”
Shin smiled faintly. “Can I take a picture of the café? From my table. Just… to have it.”
Saint blinked, surprised by the request.
“Of course. But why?”
Shin looked at the warm lights, the vines, the shelves lined with mugs and candle jars. His gaze finally landed on Saint again.
“Because this place feels like peace,” he said. “And I don’t get much of that, most days.”
Saint’s breath caught in his throat.
“Then take as many photos as you want.” he said softly.
That was the first time Shin stayed past the morning rush. He sat with a second drink. They talked. About nothing, really Chiang Mai’s street food, Saint’s favorite album, Shin’s strange addiction to banana muffins. But it felt like something.
Like the quiet beginning of a story neither of them wanted to rush.
And Saint realized, for the first time in a long time, he looked forward to mornings. Not because of the coffee. Not because of the jazz.
Because of Shin.
- The End