When I stepped through that door, everything just… shifted. One second, I was squinting against the harsh midday glare, the next, I was enveloped in this soft, golden glow, the kind you only see in old movies or maybe right after a good rain. First off, the smell. Oh, man, the smell. Like roasted coffee beans, but also something sweet, like cinnamon and ancient books, all mixed with a hint of petrichor. It clung to everything, welcoming you in.
The place itself was a café, I think? But not like any I’d ever seen. It was vast, like a grand library hall, but cozy all at once. There were towering shelves absolutely crammed with old, leather-bound books, reaching up to a ceiling I couldn't quite make out in the hazy light. And then, these little tables, dotted with mismatched teacups and half-eaten pastries, but... no people. Just a faint murmur, like a thousand hushed conversations happening just out of earshot. It was like walking into a dream you almost remember having.
"Hello?" I whispered, and my voice just… absorbed into the quiet. No echo. No response.
What is this place?
Why am I here?
And where on earth are my car keys?
Seriously, I’d been patting my pockets since I left the house. They were gone. And now I was in this… ghostly, delicious-smelling wonderland.
I wandered past a table where a chessboard was set up, mid-game. A knight stood poised, ready to capture a pawn. Nearby, a half-finished sketch lay on a napkin, a perfect rendering of a lone oak tree. It was like everyone had just vanished mid-sentence, mid-thought. It was beautiful, but also incredibly… lonely. A shiver ran down my spine, despite the warm, inviting glow.
And then I saw them. A whole wall of them. Clocks. Not digital, not even your standard analogue. These were intricate, grandfather-style clocks, cuckoo clocks, tiny pocket watches dangling from hooks, all ticking. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock. But they weren't in sync. Each one had its own rhythm, its own time. Some raced, some dragged. It was a cacophony of quiet, relentless timekeeping.
I walked over, my fingers tracing the cold brass of a particularly ornate clock. Its face read 3:17. Another, a few feet away, showed 9:02. What time was it even really? My phone? My hand instinctively went to my pocket, but of course, it wasn't there. Just the lingering hope of car keys.
This is just… too much.
Am I losing it?
Is this what being sleep-deprived feels like?
Suddenly, a faint, metallic jingle. Jingle, jingle, jingle. It was subtle, barely there, like wind chimes in a distant garden. I turned, scanning the vast, empty space. There it was again! Jingle. I started walking towards the sound, drawn in by its quiet insistence. It was coming from… under a table?
I knelt down, peering beneath a dusty wooden leg. And there it was. A single, shiny house key, lying innocently on the polished floorboards. Just one key. Not my car keys. Not any of my usual keys. Just… this one.
Jingle, jingle. The sound was closer now, not from the table, but from behind me. I spun around.
"FRANCIS!"
My eyes snapped open. I was slumped over my desk, my head resting on my history textbook, a faint ache blooming on my forehead. My phone lay beside my hand, vibrating insistently. The display read "Mum Calling." The sound had been her ringtone.
"Hello?" I mumbled, still half-lost in the golden haze of the dream café.
"Francis! You're going to be late for school! Did you oversleep again?" Her voice was crisp, urgent, and very, very real.
I blinked, taking in my very un-magical bedroom. My backpack was still half-open from last night. My actual keys were on my bedside table, right where I always leave them. No flying pamphlets, no forgotten parks, no silent cafes filled with mismatched clocks. Just the familiar drone of a Lagos morning slowly waking up outside my window.
Sometimes, I swear, the real world is almost more disorienting than the dreams. Still, a good cup of coffee sounds pretty fantastic right about now. And maybe, just maybe, a visit to a real library later.