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墨書 Inktalez
I rarely finish a bowl of soup in such silence. It wasn't because it was particularly delicious, but rather because the atmosphere of the entire restaurant seemed to possess a certain oppressive force that made one hesitant to act carelessly. The sound of the spoon clinking against the porcelain bowl rang out sharply in the dim air. The other patrons at surrounding tables spoke almost not at all, as if bound by some invisible ritual, solely focused on the food before them.
I instinctively glanced around; everyone at each table remained silent, their expressions calm and even somewhat reverent. An elderly couple slowly ladled their soup, their movements almost identical. There was also a middle-aged man who, after finishing his soup, bowed his head and closed his eyes tightly, as if engaged in prayer.
I swallowed a mouthful of lukewarm soup but couldn't swallow the questions swirling in my mind. What kind of place was this? Had these people also come here for the first time filled with confusion like I was, only to gradually accept the rules of this place and perhaps even come to love its quirks and mysteries?
I had intended to ask Leiflo some questions, but he was quietly sipping his soup at that moment. The face that usually bore a teasing smile now appeared particularly solemn. He seemed not to be dining but participating in some inner ritual. Watching his expression, I suddenly felt a twinge of unease: what exactly had he brought me to? Was this some kind of test?
My fingertips unconsciously rubbed against the seam of my pants beneath the table, as if confirming that I still had the freedom to leave. The gas lamps continued to flicker with dim light, and the ever-shifting shadows on the walls resembled spirits from some ancient myth, quietly lurking at the edges of my vision. I hardly dared to look too long, fearing I might actually see something I shouldn't.
A server appeared silently and collected our bowls of soup. His movements were clean and quiet, making almost no sound at all. That almost mechanical precision reminded me of robotic arms in certain laboratories; only here, it was a living person performing the task.
I suddenly realized that since we entered, there had been no background music, nor could I hear any sounds from the kitchen. Even the clinking of cutlery was so sparse it was nearly nonexistent. The entire restaurant felt like an isolated chamber, as if the outside world had no connection to this place.
"Why aren't they talking?" I finally couldn't help but ask Leiflo in a lowered voice.
He set down his spoon and looked at me with a smile. "It's not a rule; it's just a... natural response."
"Natural?" I frowned.
"When you realize that what you're experiencing is not just dinner but an experience that you are entering into, participating in, and possibly even changing you, you naturally become more reserved in speech and allow your thoughts to settle."
I found myself momentarily speechless. Unsure whether to accept this explanation or not, I couldn't deny that I was gradually feeling some force subtly influencing me.
In the outside world, I had never sat so quietly and still, nor had I ever contemplated my situation so thoroughly without the distractions of a phone, noise, or messages.
I took a deep breath and noticed a certain fragrance in the air—not perfume, nor the scent of food, but an indescribable essence, mingling aged wood, lime, and the dust accumulated over time. This aroma brought to mind the scent of my grandfather's cellar from my childhood, evoking a long-forgotten sense of history.
Leiflo was right. This felt less like dinner and more like a door.
A door that I was uncertain whether I should continue through.
I still remembered how that moment of silence washed over the edges of my consciousness like a tide. It wasn't a sudden fear but rather a familiar, slowly expanding sense of forgetfulness—a forgetting of reality, of the mundane, of myself as an "individual." I knew I was merely sitting at a small table, waiting for the next dish to arrive, yet it felt as if an invisible hand was gently pulling me toward some deep, dark, limitless abyss of consciousness. My body remained upright, like an unmoving statue; yet my heart floated above the back of the chair, like a liberated soul adrift in the air, unsure where to settle to find my true self.
"Did you feel nervous the first time you came here?" I finally spoke, my voice dry as a parched riverbed, scraping its way out from deep within my throat.
Leiflo looked at me, his gaze seemingly piercing through all the unspoken questions in my heart. He smiled faintly, his expression almost sorrowful. "Yes, of course. Everyone who walks in here for the first time doubts whether they’ve made a mistake. That doubt can sometimes be a flicker of uncertain curiosity or an extremely difficult-to-voice… shame. It feels as if we are not here to dine but to confront some hidden truth."
Many questions bubbled up within me, but my lips felt sewn shut by some force that prevented me from speaking. In that silence, I heard a sound.
It wasn’t human voices or the clinking of dishes; it was a deep, slow vibration that seemed to emanate from somewhere beneath the ground—a low hum. The sound resembled the rhythmic beat of machinery at work or perhaps the sound of a massive creature turning over, accompanied by an incredibly slow breath.
I suddenly looked up and around; the customers between tables remained unmoved as if they were completely unaware of that sound's existence. Their expressions were still calm—one might even say… serene.
"Did you… hear that?" I whispered almost inaudibly.
Leiflo did not answer immediately. His brow furrowed as if he were trying to discern some subtle signal. A look appeared on his face that I had never seen before—not the familiar calmness and pleasure but an almost philosophical seriousness, one that only arises during meditation or at the end of life.
"Sometimes," he finally spoke, his voice barely audible, "this place reminds us... that we have never truly understood what it is."
I was at a loss for words. The voice echoed again, this time more distinct—no longer just a low hum, but like a breath slowly exhaled from the depths of some immense being. The ground seemed to tremble slightly, as if that existence was breathing and gradually awakening.
I felt enveloped by a chill, but rather than fear, it was a strange reverence, an excitement at being invited to witness some ritual that transcended reality.
The sensation was reminiscent of many years ago when I lay alone in bed late at night, eyes closed, waiting for the moment when dreams would unfold. But this time, I suspected it was not a dream; something real was peering back at me.
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