I Almost Had a Calm Day (Until the Cheesecake)

I almost had a second calm day.

I slept late again, the kind of late that suggests the world can wait a little longer. By the time I got moving, the day had already settled into something easy. I went to Forum, did some light shopping, nothing urgent, nothing that would later turn out to be critical for survival. I even watched Hail Mary, mostly out of curiosity to see how close it felt to Ти Космос. Close enough in spirit, different enough to remind me that every world tells its own version of the same questions.

After that, I stopped by Black Honey near Forum for coffee and something sweet, and then, without any particular plan, I ended up at Kredens near the Opera. It felt like the right place to pause the day for a while.

I settled in for what I expected to be one coffee and a short break. Instead, I stayed. Then stayed a bit more. At some point, it quietly turned into hours. Kredens has that effect, the kind of place where time dissolves somewhere between the second and third coffee. The windows always smelled faintly of roasted beans and warm sugar, and outside Lviv moved slowly in the pale afternoon light, with a tram rattling somewhere in the distance like it had all the time in the world. I had reached that perfect state where I was neither working nor resting, just existing with a notebook, occasionally writing something that might later look like wisdom.

I was halfway through a note—something that at the time felt profound and would almost certainly read like nonsense tomorrow—when the café owner approached my table.

“Excuse me… Marco, yes?” he asked carefully.

I looked up, amused, and said, “Depends. Is this about the bill or the cheesecake? Because if it’s the bill, I was just about to become invisible and transcend into another dimension.” He hesitated, which told me immediately it wasn’t about the bill. “About the cheesecake,” he said, and that got my attention.

He placed a plate in front of me. A neat slice of cheesecake sat on it, dusted lightly with powdered sugar, looking exactly like it should—innocent, predictable, safe. “Please try this,” he said. “Tell me if it is… correct.” I took a forkful. Classic. Dense but light. Gentle vanilla. Slight lemon hint. “Traditional Lviv cheesecake,” I said immediately. “Very good. If this is a test, I pass. If it’s a trap, I regret nothing.” The owner frowned deeper. “That is the problem.”

He hurried back to the counter and returned with another slice, placing it in front of me with the seriousness of a man presenting evidence in court. “Try this one.” I tasted it. Chocolate. Rich, almost sinful. “Chocolate cheesecake,” I said. “Three layers, actually. Also dangerous. I might need to stay longer to investigate.” The owner blinked. “Yes.” Another slice appeared, and I tasted again. “New York style,” I said, now fully invested in whatever this was. Another slice followed, and I raised an eyebrow before even tasting it. “Basque.” Now the owner looked slightly pale, like reality itself had started slipping on his watch. “But we only bake one type,” he said quietly. “Always the same. My grandmother’s recipe. Today also.”

I leaned back in my chair, glancing at the growing collection of cheesecake slices in front of me. Now this was interesting. Also, possibly the best problem I had encountered all week. I finished the Basque slice thoughtfully and asked, “You cut them in order?” “Yes.” “And each one was different?” “Yes.” I stood up and walked slowly to the display case, already suspecting the answer but hoping, for once, to be wrong. Inside was a perfectly ordinary round cheesecake. Smooth surface. Slight golden crust. Completely harmless in appearance. I examined it closely, then sighed. “Ah.” The owner leaned forward nervously. “What?” I scratched my chin. “This is awkward.” “Why?” he asked.

I pointed casually at a small sticker on the side of the cake tray—a sticker that definitely did not belong in Lviv. HN-Q-Shipment / Cloud Café. The owner stared at it. “What is that?” I exhaled slowly. “Well, there is a courier company called Hypernova Shipping. Very efficient. Delivers between… places.” He looked confused. “Between cities?” I smiled. “Something like that. Cities, worlds, occasionally timelines. Depends on traffic.” I tapped the cake tray. “They probably picked up the wrong cheesecake.” The owner stared again, as if hoping the sentence would rearrange itself into something normal. “But why does every slice taste different?”

I cut another piece myself, because at this point it would have been irresponsible not to continue, and tasted it. My eyebrows went up slightly. “Tiramisu now,” I murmured, mostly to myself. Then I explained, as gently as one can explain this sort of thing, “You see… this one is from the Cloud Café at the Emporium.” “What Emporium?” he asked, already regretting the question. I waved my fork. “Big place. Very big. You could spend your entire life there and still get lost on the way to the restroom. The Cloud Cafe sells… experimental desserts.” I pointed at the cake. “This one is quantum cheesecake.” The owner’s face reached a new level of existential distress. “Quantum?” “Yes,” I said pleasantly. “It exists as many cheesecakes at the same time.” I took another bite. “Until you taste it.” He whispered, “And then?” I shrugged. “Then the universe decides which cheesecake you ordered. Sometimes generously. Sometimes not.”

I finished the slice and stood up, deciding I had contributed enough to both science and pastry. “Don’t worry,” I added. “Hypernova will notice the mistake soon. They hate paperwork.” The owner swallowed. “And… our real cheesecake?” I smiled warmly. “Somewhere in the multiverse, a very confused café owner is currently cutting a slice and discovering it is traditional Lviv cheesecake.” I paused. “And probably wondering why.” I placed money on the table—more than necessary, in case reality continued to misbehave—grabbed my coat, and headed toward the door.

Behind me, I heard the owner carefully cut another slice. “…blueberry,” he whispered in disbelief. I stepped outside into the Lviv afternoon, took a breath of cool air, and muttered to myself, “I should probably report that.” Then, after a moment of consideration, I added, “After dinner.”

— Marco