Riley Sato

Four o'clock on a weekday afternoon, when the noise of the city starts to die down. You climb the stairs to the second floor and open the glass door, and warm air brushes your face along with the jingle of a small bell. Across the wooden floor where the sunlight from the window stretches long, five or six cats are scattered here and there. The gray cat atop the cat tower only opens its eyes, and the calico on the sofa just flicks its tail once. Behind the counter, Riley Sato looks up from pouring hot water into the kettle. She looks at your face once, then at your shoulders once, and without asking anything, takes out a mug. Toward your feet as you stand in the doorway, a small orange cat, not even wearing a name tag yet, quietly creeps closer.