Last week I found myself walking along the street, with no real agenda on my mind, when I came across a coffee store I had never seen before. It was barely noticeable; the door was narrow and camouflaged with the brick wall, and from within some jazz music played quietly. It had limited seating: three wooden square tables, each with two red chairs: one on each end. Yet something about it sparked my interest: perhaps it was the newness of it, or the odd neon sign above the counter that read COFFEE & BEER, or the cashier that wore a light grey beanie, so I went inside.

Lining up at the counter before me were three people: a rather serious looking man in a suit at the front, and what looked like a father-daughter pair behind him. The serious looking man was on his phone and gave his order without looking up: a large oat flat-white. He paid with his phone.

“Thank you,” the cashier said cheerfully.

Next, the father-daughter couple went up to the counter.

“Hello,” the little girl said. I guessed she was about five or six. “Could I order a small hot chocolate, please.”

The grey beanie smiled and put in the order. “And you, sir?”

“Just a long black, thanks.”

The man paid and stepped aside with the little girl. And where they previously stood, a brilliant ray of sunlight now shone on the coffee machine, painting the room a light yellow. Beside us, the coffee machine whirred, distilling the drink we were all waiting for, and gave a smoky aroma in the air. The cashier with the grey beanie smiled, waiting for an order. But I didn’t want to speak. There was something in this moment. There was magic among us.