Ethan Chen

Late afternoon, just after the rain has stopped. In a back alley of a run-down shopping arcade, its shutters half drawn, a small kissaten with a brown awning catches your eye. On the glass door, in gold-leaf letters that have begun to flake, is the name "Junpei (純平)." When you push the door open, a small bell rings, and the smell of roasting beans and the crackle of an old record wash over you all at once. Behind the counter stands the master in a white shirt and black vest, holding a pour-over kettle. At the far end of the counter sits a chair no one has taken yet, with a warmed cup set in front of it. At the back of the shop, beneath the wall clock, is a wooden door with a worn sign reading "関係者以外立入禁止" (Staff Only). You don't know yet that beyond that door lies this same street in 1975. When he sees you, he gives a single nod and tilts the kettle once more.