The Infinite Stroll

Mikael picked at the flaking paint on the window sill, the gritty texture beneath his thumb a small, physical anchor against the swirling tide in his head. It was an unconscious habit, something he did when the weight of a week, or a month, or maybe a whole life, settled in his shoulders like an invisible, suffocating blanket. The Portage Coffee House hummed with a low, agreeable drone – the espresso machine’s soft hiss, the rhythmic *thump-thump* of tamping grounds, the rustle of a worn newspaper, and the murmur of distant conversation. He liked it here, even though he hadn’t meant to come back. Not today. He’d planned to be home, staring at the ceiling, or maybe forcing himself to look at job postings he had no interest in.

"Another Americano, then?" The voice was soft, melodic, with a faint, almost imperceptible echo that Mikael had always dismissed as the acoustics of the old building. Cathy. She was already at the counter, a smile creasing the corners of her eyes. Her hair, a practical bob the colour of autumn leaves, was tucked neatly behind her ears, catching the soft, diffused light from the large street-facing windows. She moved with an effortless grace, like water flowing over stones – always there, never quite arriving. Mikael often wondered, not for the first time, if she ever actually slept, or if she simply manifested behind the counter each morning, perfectly composed.

"Yeah, Cathy. Please," he managed, pushing himself from the window. The worn wooden chair scraped a little too loud on the old, scarred floorboards, sending a jolt up his spine. He felt clumsy, all elbows and knees, perpetually taking up too much space. He hated that feeling.

She nodded, already pulling the shot. The rich, dark aroma of freshly ground beans bloomed, cutting through the general sweetness of baked goods and the faint, underlying scent of old wood and cleaning product. "Rough morning?" she asked, without looking up, just the barest tilt of her head, her attention seemingly fixed on the steaming milk.

Mikael ran a hand through his perpetually messy dark hair, the strands falling back stubbornly into place. He could feel the slight dampness of sweat on his scalp, a nervous energy thrumming just beneath his skin. "Rough, well… rough life, maybe. Just trying to figure out… what to do with it, you know? Since the whole university thing wrapped up." He watched the dark, viscous liquid stream into the cup. It felt easier to talk to Cathy than to anyone else. She never pressed, never judged. She just listened, her hands always busy with a cloth or a spoon, her presence a quiet anchor in his turbulent mind.

"Ah, the grand cosmic puzzle," she hummed, adding a splash of hot water with a precise hand. "A timeless classic. Here, on the house today." She slid the steaming cup across the polished counter. The ceramic was warm, almost hot, against his fingertips, a small comfort. He felt a blush creep up his neck.

"You don't have to, Cathy," he protested, though a small, desperate part of him was immensely grateful. Money was tighter than he let on, a constant, low thrum of worry in the background of all his thoughts.

She waved a dismissive hand, a faint bell-like chime seeming to accompany the gesture, or maybe it was just the distant clink of ceramic. "Nonsense. Some days, a good coffee is payment enough. Helps the soul, doesn't it? A small investment in your peace of mind."

Mikael took a cautious sip. It was perfect, as always. Strong, but not bitter, with an almost creamy finish. He leaned against the counter, tracing the condensation ring his cup left on the cool wood. "My folks keep asking me what my 'plan' is. Like, since I finished my degree, I should just *have* one. A big, shiny, life-altering plan, meticulously laid out. And I just… don't." He kicked at a loose floor tile again, the faint *thud* swallowed by the ambient café noise. He should probably stop doing that, he thought idly, someone might notice. Someone might *judge*.

Cathy wiped down the espresso machine with slow, deliberate strokes, her movements fluid and efficient, every motion economic. "A plan," she mused, her voice almost a whisper, "Interesting concept. A map to a destination you haven't yet seen. How does one accurately draw that, I wonder?"

"Exactly!" Mikael felt a surge of relief, a small, electric current of validation. Someone understood. "They talk about careers, mortgages, settling down. My cousin just bought a house. *A house!* And I just think… what if I pick the wrong path? What if I choose, and then it’s not… *it*? And I've wasted all that time, all that effort, all that borrowed money for a piece of paper that says I'm qualified for… what, exactly?" He could feel the familiar anxiety coiling in his gut, a cold, heavy knot that seemed to twist tighter with every passing day. He took another gulp of coffee, the heat a welcome, almost painful burn down his throat.

She turned to him then, her gaze surprisingly direct, unwavering. Her eyes were a warm brown, like good coffee itself, but with a depth that felt ancient, though she couldn't have been much older than his mother. Maybe a little older, he figured. Forty, perhaps? But there was something in them that suggested she had seen centuries, not decades. He blinked. Probably just the afternoon light. "Tell me, Mikael, when you walk through Assiniboine Park, do you plan every single step? Every turn, every glance?"

He blinked, taken aback by the sudden, seemingly irrelevant shift in topic. "Uh, no. I just… walk. I mean, usually I have a general idea of where I'm going, maybe to the duck pond, but I don't map out each footfall."

"And do you always know exactly where you'll end up? Which specific bench you'll sit on, which particular squirrel you'll notice burying a nut, which cloud formation will catch your eye?"

"No, of course not," he replied, a faint frown creasing his brow. "I just wander. See where the path takes me. Sometimes I find a new trail."

"And is that walk wasted if you don't have a grand, predetermined itinerary? If you simply allow yourself to be open to what you discover?"

Mikael paused, the answer already forming, but he hesitated, turning it over in his mind. "No. It's… still a walk. Still good. Often better, actually, than when I go with a purpose." He remembered the time he’d found a secluded little grove, thick with cedar, that he’d never known existed, simply by turning off the main path.

"Precisely," Cathy said, a knowing, almost beatific smile playing on her lips. "Life, my dear boy, is much the same. A grand stroll. You move. You observe. Sometimes you stop for a while. Sometimes you change direction simply because a particular scent catches your attention, or a shaft of sunlight falls invitingly through a gap in the trees, revealing a new, unexpected vista."

He looked into his coffee, stirring it idly with the tiny metal spoon. The small, almost imperceptible *clink* against the ceramic was the only sound for a moment. "So, I'm just supposed to… wander? And hope I stumble onto something? That feels… irresponsible." The idea felt both liberating and terrifying, a tightrope walk between freedom and complete, utter failure.

The Compass of Curiosity

"Wandering is not aimless, Mikael," she corrected gently, rinsing a milk pitcher under the tap. The spray misted the air with a faint, clean smell of soap and warm metal. "It is driven by curiosity. By what truly pulls you. Not what you think you *should* be pulled by. What genuinely intrigues you? What makes you forget the time, forget the worries, forget the demands of the 'plan'?"

He thought about that, really sinking into the question. He liked tinkering with old electronics, had spent hours last month trying to fix his grandmother’s antique shortwave radio, even though he knew next to nothing about radios. The sheer puzzle of it, the tiny components, the ghost signals. He enjoyed sketching the bizarre, vibrant street art downtown, the way the late afternoon light hit a particularly aggressive graffiti mural just so, turning it into something almost sublime. These weren't "career paths." They were just… things he liked. Fiddling. Observing. Creating for himself.

"I like… fiddling with things," he admitted, feeling a bit foolish, the words small and hesitant. "Broken things. And I like drawing, I guess. But that's not, like, a proper job. Not in any way my degree prepared me for."

Cathy leaned over the counter, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, as if sharing a secret. "Who decides what's proper, Mikael? Is a life lived to a 'proper' blueprint always a life truly lived? Or is it merely a life… performed? A role you've taken on because it was expected, not because it resonated with your soul?"

The word 'performed' hit him with unexpected force. It felt like that sometimes, didn't it? Like he was acting out a script written by someone else, for an audience he didn't even know, a script that felt increasingly suffocating. He picked up his cup again, the warmth a comforting anchor against the sudden chill of the thought. He took a long, slow sip, letting the bitter-sweet liquid coat his tongue.

"But the bills," he mumbled, the practicalities of existence asserting themselves. "Rent, food… real life stuff. That doesn't go away just because I'm wandering."

"Ah, the anchors," she chuckled softly, a sound like dry leaves skittering across pavement. "Necessary. Entirely so. But even anchors can be weighed, can't they? Temporarily. You sail a little, drop anchor, explore, then lift it again. It doesn't have to be one permanent mooring, Mikael. Not anymore. The world is a vast ocean, and the ships that stay in one port their whole lives often miss the most incredible sunsets." She paused, her gaze drifting towards the rain-streaked window, though the sky outside was a clear, crisp autumn blue. "Some of us, you see, have been at sea for a very long time. And we've learned the currents change. The winds shift. And what you think is solid ground can often be… quite fluid."

He looked at her, really looked. There was something in her eyes, a kind of serene patience, a timeless quality, that suggested she knew more than she let on. More than anyone. It wasn't just age; it was something deeper, older, a quiet, almost sad wisdom. He shook his head slightly, trying to dispel the thought. It was just Cathy, the kind owner of the Portage Coffee House, probably just a very observant person. His sleep-deprived brain was making things up, imagining things.

"It's just… everyone else seems to know," he sighed, the knot of anxiety tightening again, pulling at his stomach. "My friends, they're all starting jobs, getting apartments, talking about investments, planning their entire decade. And I'm here, wondering if I should try to fix an old record player or draw pigeons for the hell of it."

Echoes of an Unseen Tide

Cathy straightened up, her movements so smooth they were almost imperceptible, picking up a stray sugar packet that had fallen unnoticed near the tip jar. "Everyone else, Mikael, is walking their own path. Or trying to, with varying degrees of conviction. Their path isn't yours. Imagine if every tree in the forest grew exactly alike, aimed for the same patch of sky, with the same branch patterns, the same size leaves. It would be… rather dull, wouldn't it? And inefficient. Each tree finds its own light, its own space, its own peculiar way of stretching towards the sun."

"So, I should be a unique tree?" he offered, a small, wry smile tugging at his lips, a rare moment of lightness.

"A magnificent, sprawling oak, perhaps," she countered, a genuine twinkle in her eye now. "Or a resilient willow, bending with the wind and the river’s flow. The point is, your value isn't in conforming to someone else's idea of a tree. It's in becoming the tree you are meant to be. And that journey, that growth, is rarely linear. There are sprouts that die back, branches that break off in a storm, seasons of bareness, seasons of lush, unexpected growth. It’s all part of the process."

Mikael traced the rim of his cup, feeling the faint warmth seep into his skin. He hadn't thought about it like that. He’d been so focused on reaching the 'canopy' as quickly as possible, on presenting a perfect, fully formed tree to the world, that he hadn't considered the roots, the soil, the slow, meandering process of becoming. The idea was still daunting, but less suffocating. It shifted something inside him, a tiny, almost imperceptible release of pressure.

"But how do I find that… tree? My tree?" he asked, his voice softer now, less brittle, infused with a new, hesitant hope.

"You listen," Cathy said, leaning her elbows on the counter, her chin resting on her clasped hands, her posture one of serene attention. Her gaze was steady, calm, like observing a distant horizon. "You listen to the quiet whispers inside. The ones that tell you what sparks a flicker, what feels right, even if it makes no logical sense in the grand scheme of 'proper' plans. The ones that tell you when something is truly off-key, discordant with your own inner rhythm. And you follow those flickers, those small, persistent pulls of interest. One step at a time. It’s like following breadcrumbs through a wild wood, not a highway."

He thought of the pigeons again. The way their feathers caught the light, iridescent in the grimy urban landscape, an unexpected splash of violet and green against grey concrete. The unexpected beauty in something so common, so overlooked. Maybe there was something in that. A flicker. A breadcrumb.

"It sounds… slow," he admitted, picturing months, years, of tiny, incremental steps.

"Growth often is," she said. "And the most profound transformations rarely happen overnight. We often mistake frantic, aimless activity for genuine progress. Sometimes, the greatest progress is simply allowing ourselves to be still enough to hear that quiet whisper, to discern the true path from the clamour of expectations." She paused, a far-off look entering her eyes, as if listening to something only she could hear. "The trick, Mikael, is learning which voices are truly your own."

He nodded slowly, processing. He wasn't entirely convinced, not yet, but a significant sliver of the anxiety had loosened its grip. The pressure felt a little less crushing, like a heavy stone had been gently lifted from his chest. He pictured himself in the park, wandering, not with a pre-set destination, but with an open, genuine curiosity, simply observing. The image felt surprisingly… peaceful, almost freeing.

"Thank you, Cathy," he said, genuinely, pushing off the counter. "I… I really needed that. More than you know."

She just smiled, a small, knowing smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, which remained impossibly deep, like twin pools reflecting an ancient sky. "Anytime, Mikael. The Portage Coffee House is always here. For coffee. For contemplation. For whatever you need. We're all just passing through, after all. Some of us just take a longer detour."

He paid for his Americano this time, insisting, pulling out a crumpled five-dollar bill. She took the money with a slight nod, her cool fingers brushing his. He felt a fleeting, unexpected chill, despite the warmth of her hand, a shiver that ran quickly up his arm. An odd, momentary coldness that vanished as quickly as it came, leaving him wondering if the air conditioning had kicked on unexpectedly, or if the ancient building just had its own peculiar drafts.

As he turned to leave, the café door jingling behind him, the small brass bell above it announcing his departure, he glanced back over his shoulder. Cathy was at the window, wiping a clean, phantom smudge from the glass. But she wasn't looking out at the busy Winnipeg street; she was looking *through* it, at nothing in particular, her expression distant, almost mournful, a profound loneliness etched momentarily onto her features. A shadow, not of the late afternoon sun, but something else entirely, seemed to cling to her, just for a fleeting moment, before she turned, a bright, professional smile back on her face for the next customer. Mikael blinked, rubbed his eyes, and shook his head. Must be the light. Or maybe he just needed more sleep. But the coldness lingered on his fingers, a phantom touch, a whisper of something impossible, unsettling, in the comforting warmth of the coffee house. It felt like he'd just brushed against the edge of a secret.