—the kind of place where silence is a language and the only thing that brews anymore is suspicion
They say it opened just one day,
in fields where wheat forgot to sway.
No roads led in, no signs were hung,
yet still the grinder softly sung.
Its windows wept with morning steam,
the silo shaped like someone’s dream.
No one served and none were seen.
The menu changed with each ravine
of frost along the rusted hatch,
and cups were poured without a match.
One sip would make you dream of crows.
Two sips, you’d feel your molars close.
A third and then the silo knew.
Your name, your sins, what roots you grew.
It didn’t judge. It simply steeped
your memories in something deep.
And when you left, you left some skin,
the price for tasting warmth again.
📜 The Silo Café – The Recipe
Ingredients:
- 2 tbsp Cracked Wheat Coffee (or what’s left of it)
- 6 oz Condensation Drip (harvested at dawn)
- 1 grain of salt (for memory retention)
- Serve in: Tin cup, dented, anonymous
Instructions:
Arrive before sunrise. Knock on the silo three times. Speak your name once, backwards. Wait for steam to rise through the grain chute. Drink only if your ancestors would disapprove. Do not return. It will not be there.