By no means is it hidden, and by no stretch of the imagination is it out of the ordinary or divine. The small enclosed cafe and private garden in the lower layer known and the Inkleaf cafe is just that. A small walled off garden with a simple fountain, and the only gateway to it being from a quaint cafe that is always open, and the scent of freshly baked goods floating out the from the kitchen's slatted windows. Red brick walls covered in jasmine climb the crevices and add a fragrance on their own, as colorful flowers line the path to the door. The only sign that it is truly a cafe and not some rich house leader's quite retreat is a hand carved sign and a well used lantern. The paint had faded with time and the lantern has rusted slightly, but both hang proud by the entry. The sign reads in fading gold:
Welcome to Inkleaf
Under it, almost unnoticeable, perhaps the work of a patron long past is a small carving.
❦
Once inside the cafe is filled with the letters and words of it's patrons, floating in the air like a soft haze. If you wished for a word to describe this place it would be 'cozy', the small space home to old wooden tables, sayings, names, and words of advice for the next patron carved into what once might have been a smooth polished surface. The chairs creak and groan under the weight of the city people and occasional book children. In the corner or the room, nestled by a lamp an old mechanical owl rustles if copper feathers occasionally emitting a soft 'who' as people come and go.
A small gate opens to the small garden, a few small scattered tables and benches line the walls and flowers and fragrances fill the air. Vibrant greens plants of varying textures and tones cover every inch they can, the pathways shifting ever so slight to lead you down a 'road' of color, flowers always seemingly in bloom at the cafe year round. The warmth of the sun filters down through a large tree, it's bark covered in the name of lovers, friends, and each year it seems the tree only grows more to provide more room for more names yet to be carved into it's bark, as if the tree itself is keeping a record for all to see.
The cafe staff is kind; A portly man with the soft smile who bakes the delicacies from the kitchens, the willowy old woman who takes the tabs and run the accounts, and matronly woman who waits and buses the tables with an efficiency almost impossible to follow. No one really advertises, no one needs to. The cafe is known by word alone, and in it's own corner of the lower layer, it welcomes all. Those who've come before, those just discovering, and supposedly...those yet to be discovered.
Welcome to Inkleaf
Under it, almost unnoticeable, perhaps the work of a patron long past is a small carving.
❦
Once inside the cafe is filled with the letters and words of it's patrons, floating in the air like a soft haze. If you wished for a word to describe this place it would be 'cozy', the small space home to old wooden tables, sayings, names, and words of advice for the next patron carved into what once might have been a smooth polished surface. The chairs creak and groan under the weight of the city people and occasional book children. In the corner or the room, nestled by a lamp an old mechanical owl rustles if copper feathers occasionally emitting a soft 'who' as people come and go.
A small gate opens to the small garden, a few small scattered tables and benches line the walls and flowers and fragrances fill the air. Vibrant greens plants of varying textures and tones cover every inch they can, the pathways shifting ever so slight to lead you down a 'road' of color, flowers always seemingly in bloom at the cafe year round. The warmth of the sun filters down through a large tree, it's bark covered in the name of lovers, friends, and each year it seems the tree only grows more to provide more room for more names yet to be carved into it's bark, as if the tree itself is keeping a record for all to see.
The cafe staff is kind; A portly man with the soft smile who bakes the delicacies from the kitchens, the willowy old woman who takes the tabs and run the accounts, and matronly woman who waits and buses the tables with an efficiency almost impossible to follow. No one really advertises, no one needs to. The cafe is known by word alone, and in it's own corner of the lower layer, it welcomes all. Those who've come before, those just discovering, and supposedly...those yet to be discovered.
