Warm Soul

It was normally quiet in there, a place for people to think rather than talk. My first visit filled me with interest; the little café was a far difference from the small yet lively town I was accustomed to. Gentle music played from an unseen stereo in the background, the kind of melody that made you start to feel drowsy after a while, and I found myself listening to it over and over again. Was it normally like this? I couldn't help wondering. It seemed impossible that our busy town could house such a beautiful, peaceful place as this.

Brewster's Roost, they called it.

On my third visit, I gathered up the nerve to walk up to the counter and ask for a cup of coffee. I'd heard rumours around town that the café's drinks were the best in the world, and it set me alight with intrigue; I had to try it for myself. Perhaps the only reason I hadn't already done so... Well, that was another story. To put it simply, I was nervous of the café owner. Yes, when I say that out loud, it seems stupid.

But I spoke to the villagers and many of them happened to agree with me. There were whisperings - some told me to steer clear of him, to avoid speaking with him - and far worse. Yet I didn't understand. The first time I had attempted to order myself some coffee, the bartender had given me a single glance, and it was sufficient to send me backing away into the door and running back down the cobbled path to my house.

I wasn't sure how to describe that glance. It had been frightening - I might go as far as to say 'quelling'. But there had been something else in the pigeon's eyes - something akin to interest or perhaps curiosity, as though he had never seen a person like me before.

It wasn't until my fifth trip to the café that I finally mustered my courage and made a silent vow. This time, without fail, I would speak to the owner and get myself a coffee. I couldn't wait any longer.

The night was cold and damp as a light rain splattered off the roof of my house. Unwilling to step outside, I hovered on the porch for a few minutes in the hope that it would stop drizzling, but it showed no signs of doing so. With a sigh, I pulled my hat low over my eyes and set off at a sprint, along the rocky cobbled path and past the woodland that took me straight to the café's doorstep, caked in fresh mud from the shoes of customers.

Brewster's Roost, read the sign outside the door.

Tucking my umbrella into my pockets, I stepped into the wonderfully warm and coffee-scented atmosphere of the building, smiling as I walked to the nearest vacant seat and settled down. The calming rhythm of the music lulled me into a sleepy daze, and I hardly noticed when the tall pigeon wandered over to the counter to take my order.

When I felt his shadow dropping over me, I glanced up. 'Um...' I stammered too quickly. 'A - a coffee, please?'

He seemed unfazed by my odd tone of voice, as though he had expected it, and I vaguely wondered how many other people had spoken to him in this same manner. Rather, he looked down at me through his small spectacles and replied:

'It's two hundred Bells a cup.'

Hastily I fumbled in my pockets, trying to dig out the correct number of coins. I felt like I needed a clearout; how much did I really have in there? I found a few Bells wedged in between a lovely sofa and something that might have been blue chair. And there was a larger object in there as well - exotic bed? No, wait - it was a pipe organ. I sighed and withdrew my hand, tossing the scant pile of Bells across the counter.

'...Thanks,' said Brewster quietly, scooping up the coins and leaning under the counter. Mere seconds later he returned, holding a steaming cup of black coffee, which he passed into my shaking hands without comment. Really, was it normal for him to be this quiet? Did he behave like this with all the villagers, or only to me?

'...You should drink it while it's hot...' he added, and I hastily jerked my arm back and grasped the handle of the coffee mug. I saw his eyebrow go up, but he displayed no other sign of noticing my strangeness.

The dark liquid was scalding hot, exactly as he had described; I forced myself to gulp it all down in one swallow, barely noticing the taste as I focused on not burning my mouth too badly. The coffee slid down my throat like a molten lava river, making my eyes water, but in its aftermath it brought a peculiar warmth, calming and soothing, reminding me of the soft music that always played in the café.

'...Thank you,' I murmured, passing the empty mug back across the counter. I felt like I ought to tell the owner how amazing his coffee was, but I couldn't find any suitable words to describe it.

Brewster seemed to care little either way. He took the cup back as silently and methodically as he did everything else, the edge of his wing brushing my hand just for a moment. I slowly climbed out of my chair and turned to walk out of the café, wanting to escape the cold rain and return to my warm, familiar house in good time.

The bitter air outside was horrible; it struck against me like a tidal wave and I pulled my coat around myself more tightly, feeling a powerful urge to run back inside the café where it was warm and dry. And along with my discomfort, I felt a - very small – pang of guilt that I had walked out without saying anything. I should have congratulated Brewster for making such wonderful coffee; I should have thanked him properly, or said anything at all - but I had left with barely a word, and in the second before I did, I had seen a flash of resentment in the café owner's eyes.

It was a freezing spring morning; the snow had only recently melted enough for me to leave the house. As I cautiously ventured outside, frost cracked under my boots and I saw sparkling dew settling on the grass, prompting me to sigh. As cold as it might be, I really couldn't afford to stay indoors for another day, when I was in desperate need of fresh clothes and furniture - not to mention I had to collect more fruit. After two weeks spent in my house, it was due time for a trip down to Nook's shop.

I made my way north to Main Street, pausing just long enough to vigorously shake an apple tree and gather up the ripe fruit in my pockets. The villagers glanced at me as I hurried past, but nobody tried to stop me; perhaps they had noticed I was in a rush to get back home. I was forced to halt beside the train station as the gates went down to let a train through; wind buffeted me as the enormous steam engine squealed along the tracks not five inches in front of my nose. Shivering, I ducked under the gate and ran across the track to Main Street.

It was less busy than usual and I guessed that most of the villagers were still in town, probably curled up underneath their warm bedcovers and waiting out the winter. They have the right idea, I thought bitterly, tightening my coat once again as I sprinted along the deserted street and through the automatic doors of Nook's place, which was only fractionally warmer than the air outside.

'Ah, madam...' Tom Nook began, then took in the ruffled state of my clothes and added, '...I see you've been hibernating like almost everyone else.'

'It's cold,' I argued.

He shook his head sadly and hurried around the counter to help me with my shopping; he had long since memorised all the products I frequently bought. 'Business is terrible at this time of year, what with all the animals sleeping out the winter, never getting out of bed, let alone visiting Main Street...' He trailed off and abruptly reverted to his more formal tone, the one I was accustomed to hearing. 'So, madam. How may I help you this morning?'

It seemed that Tom Nook shared my desire to pack up and go home as quickly as possible, and as I pointed out various objects I needed to buy, he rambled on continually about how he intended to shut up shop early that day. It was unlike him to close his beloved shop simply because of a lack of customers, but I didn't have time to question him. As soon as I'd finished paying for my items - half my Bells gone, I thought sadly - Nook bade me farewell and put up the 'TEMPORARILY CLOSED' sign on the inside of the doors.

Even though the place wasn't warm, it seemed even colder when I stepped outside again. I was gripping an armful of shopping bags; they were heavy, I was tired, and I didn't feel like walking home yet, but nor did I fancy sitting on the park bench at the end of Main Street and enduring the freezing wind. My gaze travelled along the path and rested on the flashing neon sign outside the Post Office - surely Club LOL couldn't be open to the public at this time of day? But as I approached it I heard voices from inside, and the lights switched off. I was right - the club was closed for the morning. I gathered up my shopping bags and resigned myself to an unpleasant journey home.

'Hey.'

The cool voice made me turn back. Looking warily over my shoulder, I spotted the famous musician K.K. exiting the nightclub, his old guitar slung over his back. It felt very strange to see him wandering around town like - a normal person. Of course, I had spoken to him plenty of times on Saturday nights, but never face-to-face like this.

'You ought to be gettin' back to your pad,' he continued, waving a hand in the vague direction of the train tracks that I had to cross to get home. 'It's gettin' colder, and nobody's willing to keep their shops open right now.'

'I know. I'm on my way home.'

He nodded, but didn't seem satisfied. 'Take my advice, buddy... go to the Roost as soon as you can. I hear whispers that old Brewster's makin' some pretty fine coffee down there today.'

'Really?' I pondered the issue. The prospect of a coffee was heavenly right now, and I had no desire to stand outside with my heavily overloaded shopping bags any longer. 'I suppose I'll check it out.'

'See you around, cool cat.'

I walked briskly across the tracks which were - thankfully - unblocked by passing trains, then ran the rest of the way to the Roost. The second I stepped through the door, I was engulfed in that familiar warm coffee-scented air and calming piano music. The café was deserted but for the owner, who was standing in his usual place behind the counter as though he'd been waiting for me to arrive.

Nervousness overtook me again. I hadn't visited the café in weeks - had barely glanced at it as I rushed back and forth between Main Street and my house, gathering supplies to last the winter. After all this time, Brewster still managed to look as intimidating as ever. But I was determined to get what I'd come here for - a nice coffee to help me through this unpleasantly cold day, and a warm place to read the newspaper in peace and quiet.

I threw my bags to the floor; they crashed against the old floorboards and a cloud of dust rose into the air. 'The usual, please,' I said, taking my seat on the vacant chair in front of the counter.

Brewster didn't reply, but merely reached under the counter and started extracting cups and coffee beans with the speed and efficiency of a longtime expert. I found his silence fascinating, but unnerving. When he passed me a full mug of dark, steaming liquid only second later, I was amazed by how fast it had appeared.

'How did you make that so quickly?' I blurted, hastily reaching for the mug and wrapping both hands around it, exhaling in relief at the warmth spreading through my body at the touch.

His eyebrow twitched. 'Secret,' he said quietly, and wait - was that a hint of humour in his voice? No. It couldn't be. The Brewster I knew was always silent and solemn and intimidating.

I slowly gulped down my drink, enjoying the sensation of scalding liquid trickling down my throat and erasing the numb coldness of winter. I heard slight squeaking noises that informed me Brewster was polishing cups again, but I never noticed how intently he was watching me - as though waiting for something to happen, or simply because he was curious about me... I had received similar stares from the animal villagers when I'd been new in town.

When I had finished, I slid my empty mug back across the counter and into the owner's waiting hand. Loathe to step outside in the freezing cold, I dithered over my shopping bags, dawdling as I climbed out of my seat and prepared to leave. But suddenly I heard Brewster's quiet voice calling me back. 'Stay a while,' he murmured, gesturing towards the table in the corner and the crumbly old newspaper rack.

I hesitated, then slowly sunk into the nearest chair and reached out for something interesting to read, dropping my bags under the table. '...Thank you,' I replied gratefully.

Brewster went back to polishing cups and never responded, but I stole glances at him over the top of my newspaper, and swore he looked more contented than usual.

I made a habit of visiting the café every day after that. It wasn't because the coffee had become addictive - although it was about the best thing I'd ever drunk in my life - but rather, I felt a sense of harmony with the place. I often worked long and exhausting days pulling weeds and planting flowers throughout the town; sometimes the villagers also requested that I run errands for them, and despite my weariness I never failed to help. Once the afternoon was done and the sky was darkening, the glowing sign outside the café was like a beacon. The little shop became a refuge, a paradise, a place where I could rest and enjoy some of Brewster's incredible coffee before trudging home to bed.

And I felt a sense of kinship with Brewster. The quiet, impassive pigeon always stood behind the counter and polished mugs and stared at me over the top of his spectacles, as though sizing me up, but there was warmth in his voice when he greeted me. And he started changing the recipe of his coffee, too; as the nights drew in and the season changed I realised he was making it thicker, warmer, somehow more comforting than usual, and the drink was always a relief after a long day working outside in the bitterly cold rain.

Around midwinter, I left Tom Nook's store after buying the stock of seasonal decorations I needed for my house. It was just beginning to snow, tiny wet flakes drifting from the sky and blowing all around Main Street, and I guessed we were about to have a white Christmas for the first time in years.

The fall grew heavier as I followed the path home, and it came as a relief to step inside my small, but cosy house and begin packing the decorations away in closets. It would still be a few days before I was ready to hang them up in their proper places. I wandered over to the radio and switched in on, sighing with contentment as my favourite song - K.K. Blues - flared softy, filling the tiny room with warmth. Then, reluctantly, I stepped outside to open my mailbox, remembering I'd seen it flashing a signal before when I last walked past.

There was a single letter inside, with no present attached, and signed in messy scrawl: 'From Brewster'. My jaw dropped and I stared blankly at the signature, wondering if the cold had gone to my head. The keeper of the Roost had decided to send me a letter? Why? I found my hands trembling oddly as I slit it open. The message inside was very short and to the point.

'I'm trying out a new type of coffee in the shop today. Come by if you're interested.'

That evening at seven o' clock, I left the comfort of my home and followed the well-trodden cobble path leading up the the railway track. However, instead of running across it and venturing into windy, snowy Main Street, I ducked past a row of trees and into the blissfully warm, coffee-scented air of the little café. As soon as I entered, I knew I wouldn't be wanting to leave anytime soon. At the table I saw K.K. Slider reading a newspaper; the shocking sight of him doing something so ordinary brought a grin to my face as I watched him.

Then a quiet voice called me over to the counter, where Tom Nook and Brewster were apparently deep in discussion over the merits of Blue Mountain coffee. I suppressed a shudder when I realised that I'd have to sit right beside Tom if I wanted to get my drink. Don't get me wrong, I certainly don't hate that guy, but there was something about him that I found vaguely dislikeable. Ever since I'd started buying Christmas gifts in bulk at his store, he'd been talking more and more with me, even letting me have some of his goods for a lower-than-usual price. As far as I knew he wasn't doing this for anyone else in town, and his odd behaviour was unsettling me.

'The usual?' a soft voice asked, and I jerked my attention back to Brewster, who was polishing a cup and watching me expectantly over the top of his spectacles.

Putting aside my dislike of Tom Nook, I went to sit by the counter and looked Brewster in the eyes. 'I heard you were doing a new blend today,' I said softly.

'Of course.' Promptly, without wasting my time or his, he bent down to retrieve my usual mug from underneath the counter. As I watched him work, fascinated as always by the speed and grace of his well-practised motions, I heard Tom clear his throat from beside me.

'Ah, I'm glad to see you here!' he said, his voice overly friendly. He already held a half-empty coffee cup and I saw him sip from it out of the corner of my eye. But I wouldn't look at him directly, instead replying in what I hoped was a tone that made my disinterest obvious - without straying beyond the boundaries of politeness.

'Hello, Mr Nook.'

He was perhaps put off by my... unenthusiastic response, for his ears flattened and he didn't try to engage me in conversation again. I smirked and turned to Brewster, who was just in the process of passing me a cup of steaming, red-hot liquid. I took it with a murmur of gratitude, enjoying the feel of the mug rapidly drawing the cold from me, bringing a sense of feeling back into my half- numbed hands.

'Feeling OK?' Brewster said quietly, watching me under the pretence of continuing to polish a mug. 'It's cold out today...'

I looked him in the eyes, then hastily ducked my head to take a swallow of coffee. It burned a track down my throat, re-awakening all my senses after the bitter chill had stolen them from me. This sensation I was used to, but the taste in my mouth was certainly something different. I stared at the café owner in surprise, and saw his eyebrows twitch upward beneath his spectacles before he turned away, as if in amusement.

'Hot chocolate,' he murmured, and didn't look at me again. I just grinned like an idiot and gulped down the sweet, warm drink, the mug bringing my hands back to life, and a strange feeling of gratitude coursing through my heart.