“How are you?” a voice made slightly distorted by the connection asked.

“I’m fine,” I said, smiling at the sound of my father’s voice. I was busy stirring something on the stove, and had the phone nestled between my shoulder and ear.

“I miss you,” he said, “and I’m sorry I can’t visit.” I didn’t reply, carefully pouring the right amount of sugar into the mixture. My father mistook my silence for anger.

“Don’t be mad,” he chided gently, clucking his tongue.

“I’m not angry,” I said, “We’ve been over this a hundred times. If you still want to talk about it, talk to the shrink.” I hadn’t meant for that last part to slip out, and I could hear my father sigh, partly in frustration, and partly in guilt. The bell tinkled, and I looked up to see the boy.

“I love you,” I said quickly, as I turned off the stove.

“I do too,” my father said, as he disconnected. The boy settled on his regular seat and tilted his head.

“Who was that?” he asked, placing his backpack on the counter.

“My father,” I said, sliding a menu in front of him. He ignored it.

“Tell me about him,” he said, seeming curious.

“What do you want to know?” I asked, sitting down behind the counter.

“Anything,” he said wistfully.  In the quiet peace of the afternoon, I felt like I was the librarian who told children tales during story time.

“When I was little, he used to bring back coffee candies from his workplace,” I said, “My mother didn’t like that; she thought those candies would stunt my growth.” The boy mused thoughtfully and smiled. His expression reminded me of that of a child who believed in the everlasting magic of fairy tales.

“My father and I used to eat those candies under the dinner table when my mother was tending to the shop,” I said, as I tried to remember the taste of those coffee flavoured drops. I couldn’t remember why they had been so addicting.

“What shop?” the boy asked, as he leaned closer towards me.

“This shop,” I said, a little embarrassed. “After she passed away, the café was all I had left of her.” Though he didn’t look surprised, he didn’t smile patronizingly at me, like most people did. I appreciated that.

“I’m sorry I asked,” he said quietly.

“It’s fine,” I said, sounding a little forced. I sighed. “It’s really nothing. My father and I moved abroad after she died, but we still own this café.  I just come back every year for the memories.”

“Your father doesn’t?” the boy asked, looking concerned. Brushing away my bangs, I bit my lower lip.

“He thinks I should move on,” I said, “He loved her, you know? I can chase after ghosts, but he won’t.” The boy mumbled something, but I pushed on.

“This café’s become my coffee candy,” I said a little bitterly. “It’s something I love too much, even though I have all the reasons to move on.”

“There’s nothing wrong with loving the past,” he told me, “as long as you don’t live in it.” With that, he left me holding my own menu.

The next day, I found a packet of coffee candies sitting in front of the café.