The café used to be an army barracks. Now the concrete walls have been smoothed over, painted a colour called mushroom grey. From the ceiling hang old helmets, painted white and turned into lamps that cast a soft light. Above the counter, a rusted metal sign reads VOJENSKÁ, its fading letters half-lost behind a new pink neon for flat whites and cake.

It’s full today. Warm air, slow jazz, people hunched over laptops. Outside, a flurry of snow is falling. Inside, a man sighs into his phone.

“No, I don’t remember giving you a passcode.”
He’s polite at first. “How many numbers is it? Wait, did I press something? Oh, it’s a word? Could it be the street I grew up on?”
He pauses. “No, lower case? Or upper? Look, can I just talk to a real person?”
The espresso maker hisses. The man’s voice softens, as if hoping the machine will take pity.

At the counter, an American man points at the cake display and reads a Czech label.
“I’ll have that, uh, Mr. Kev.”
The barista blinks. “Who?”
“Mr. Kev. That one. There.” He points again, tapping the glass.
She leans closer. “You want… Mr. Kev?”
“Yes, yes, Mr. Kev.”
She shakes her head slightly. “No one called Mr. Kev works here.”

Two women sit by the window. One wears a scarf and gestures often. The other listens, nodding slowly.
“It’s heartbreaking,” the first says. “That poor girl who took our order, she’s Ukrainian. Can you imagine leaving everything behind like that?”
The other woman takes her first sip of coffee and frowns slightly.
“It’s cold,” she says.
“Maybe it’s modern, maybe it’s supposed to be.”
“No, it’s not. Should I say something to the waitress?”
The other woman shakes her head. “She’s been through enough.”
“Yes, but if we don’t tell them, how will they learn?”
They fall quiet, stirring sugar that doesn’t need stirring.

A child runs between tables, laughing. The parents, both on their phones, lift their eyes only when the child bumps into a chair. At the next table, a man types rapidly, jaw tightening each time the child’s shoes slap against the tiles. He catches the parents’ eyes once. They smile faintly, as if to say isn’t the kid adorable? He doesn’t smile back.

“Yes, I pressed one already. No, not the pound key, we don’t have that here.”
The man’s voice is louder now. “I just want to check my account balance. Can I come into the bank in person? It’s only next door!” A moment passes. “What? Hello? No! I’ve already pressed three!”

At the counter, the American and the barista are still talking past each other.
He’s trying again, voice rising slightly. “No, no, the orange one, the cake!”
“That’s mrkev, carrot,” she says, frowning.
“That’s what I said, Mr. Kev!”
The barista exhales, turns away, and drives the knife through the cake.

The waitress moves from table to table, her accent faint but present. She’s efficient, a little distant. When she passes the two women again, one of them smiles warmly, almost apologetically. The waitress smiles back, though she’s not sure why.

A faint tremor runs through the floor as a tram passes outside. The sound merges with the rhythm of spoons and soft conversation. Someone curses quietly at their screen. The kid continues to run, arms splayed, pretending to be a fighter jet.  

Inside, it all continues, steady and warm. Outside, the snow keeps falling.

First published in Milk & Honey, České Budějovice