esh’s memory drifted back to that April evening, when he was his son’s age. The incident’s memory was like an unforgiving mouse trap that caged him every time his mind drifted there.

The morning sunlight cast my eyes in tangerine hues. The sky was clear with no trace of clouds.

On the yellowish wall was a blurry sketch of Confucius and next to it a fuzzy John Lennon portrait. The liaison of old wall’s faint yellow paint and the numerous wall cracks resulted in a distinct shape, a bit of a cult of Maya’s café.

On the yellowish wall was a blurry sketch of Confucius and next to it a similarly fuzzy John Lennon portrait. The combination of the old wall’s faint yellow paint and the numerous wall cracks resulted in a distinct shape, exuding a retro vibe—what typified Maya’s café.