The aroma of roasted coffee beans and boiling water filled every corner of the old wooden cabin. Golden afternoon light streamed through the cracks between the wooden windowpanes, casting a warm glow across the teak table, its surface covered in the scratches of time.
In the corner of the room, a simple stone stove burned low, the firewood crackling softly as it drove away the afternoon chill slowly creeping up from the surface of the lake. The silver-haired old man poured thick black liquid from a clay pot into two handmade earthenware cups.
“Coffee from the eastern slopes,” he said, sliding one of the cups toward Arka with a friendly smile. “Grown directly in velvet soil, watered with pure *Velvetide* dew. It always leaves a sweet trace at the base of your tongue.” Arka breathed in the warm steam rising from his cup, then wrapped both hands around the earthenware. Warmth immediately spread from his fingers through his arms, loosening the muscles that had grown slightly stiff after rowing across the still waters of Glass Lake.
“Thank you so much, sir,” Arka whispered sincerely. He took a slow sip. The rich flavor of roasted coffee and the fragrance of cinnamon blended so gently in his throat, warming his chest and sending a soothing silence through his entire body.
When he set the cup back on the wooden table, Arka’s gaze shifted to a small table resting casually beside the stove. Lying there was a handheld wooden string instrument made of polished mahogany, with a neat row of thin metal tines arranged across its top.
A kalimba. Its shape was remarkably simple, yet it exuded an elegant air, complete with delicate carvings of curling tree vines along the wooden body.
Arka slowly pushed back his chair, walked over to the small table, and reached for the wooden instrument with a swell of admiration in his chest.
“May I try it for a moment, sir?” Arka asked, turning gently toward the cabin’s owner. The old man paused midway through a sip of coffee, smiled serenely, and nodded. “Go ahead, son. Pluck it as much as you like. That instrument is always happy when warm fingers are willing to greet it.”
Arka brought the instrument back to the table, balanced it in his hands, and used both thumbs to pluck the metal tines one after another, slowly.
Ting... ting... tong...
Classical notes flowed smoothly from the hollow mahogany body of the kalimba. The sound was not sharp at all; instead, it was crystal-clear, mellow, and incredibly soft, creating a relaxed melodic harmony that seemed to awaken a warm spirit throughout the wooden cabin.
Each note blended harmoniously with the crackle of firewood in the stove and the rustle of pine needles stirred by the afternoon wind outside.
He slowly set the mahogany kalimba beside his earthenware cup, then returned to enjoying the last of the steaming coffee from the clay pot. “The notes are so calm, gentle, and soothing,” Arka said, his voice filled with gratitude.
“As if they were made especially to complete the beauty of the afternoon here.”
The two of them continued their warm conversation inside the old cabin, accompanied by delicious coffee from the clay pot and the echo of soft, soul-soothing notes, until the sun slowly sank toward the western horizon of Velvetide.