純白嗎？不，那是帶著暈黃的銀絲纏合體。
我一直以為那是月亮，它卻是別的東西。
冬天的夜晚，走在沒有人的街道上，寒意更盛，我只想快快經過只有冷白路燈照耀的這條小路，快一些回到有暖氣的，只有十五坪大的小套房。
雖然不大，但那是我安身立命的地方，薪資和房價極為不成比例的現在，能擁有一個自己的小套房，已經是冬日裡一碗関東煮的幸福了。
進了門，呼出長長一口氣，三步並兩步將暖氣打開。一轉頭就朝向咖啡機前進。
那咖啡機是這房間裡唯一有格調的東西，是我在二手店裡淘來的。那天不知怎麼的，走進了捷運站旁，十幾年來不曾去過的一家二手淘寶店。
那家店有兩層，坪數頗大，沒有刻意的招牌和裝潢，就是靜靜地在那裡。
淤積了時間的感覺，就是這樣？好像各種時空擠在這裡吵架。走在裡頭有種異樣的感覺，似乎處處有人在，還揪着你看。
正後悔進來，突然一條絲線牽引般，我向某個方向望去。它就在那裡。
一個古老的邊桌上，放著老式咖啡機，上頭有個把手，要人轉着它用的那種。機關的部分是銀的，其它是木頭，至於什麼木質我就不清楚了，總之泛着種安詳沈靜，好像閉眼的微笑。樣式是最基本的那種，沒有什麼裝飾，就是把手處的木頭雕了一個線條簡單的，微笑少女的形象。
只費五百元，一千元出去還找五百，這感覺挺好，而機器本身透出的木質溫馨，成為促我下手的最後一道工。
沒什麼特別的包裝，一個白色塑膠袋就了結。
拿著小小的塑膠袋，感受一股重量，不多到沈，也不少到讓人不安。突然覺得純白的塑膠袋和這簡單古老的咖啡機，湊在一起，也是一種格調。
從那天起，用這小咖啡機泡杯小咖啡，就成了我的小日子。
打開咖啡機的小抽屜，將磨好的豆子倒在白色咖啡杯裡，煮好的熱水直接倒進去，拿著銀色的小茶匙悠哉悠哉地劃着圈。
不是頂好的豆子，也不知手法專不專業，但只要那深色的液體隨著小茶匙的動作劃出水波，散出芳香，我臉上就起紅暈，幸福陶陶。
今天也是這樣，捧著平價的純白咖啡杯，擺弄銀色茶匙，聞着那味，在暖起來的房間中，我很幸福。
「哈～。」呼出帶著咖啡味的一口氣，享受滿足的餘韻，正想著來洗個熱水澡，再暖烘烘地睡下，窗戶那邊，卻傳來輕輕的聲響。
是什麼呢？野貓嗎？想著，走向窗邊拉開窗帘想看個究竟，但什麼也沒有。
沈默一會兒，恩，怕是已經走了吧，野貓。
拉上窗帘，準備去澡間。這時，窗戶那再度傳來聲響。
這下我毛了，什麼狀況？盯著已拉上的窗帘看，那聲音沒停下。
這難道是…。室內的暖氣和咖啡的香味沒有用了，從背脊開始發涼。
轉念一想，沒有什麼好怕的。
我走出落地窗，掃視黑暗中那小小的陽台。幾盆景觀植物文風不動。大概是別家的聲響吧，作下結論。但還沒走回房裡，那聲音又響起。
我嚇了一跳，那聲音確實是來自我的陽台，但什麼都沒有呀？環顧四週，黑暗一片。
我屏息着，從聲音的來源看去—
竟是月光。
奇妙地，那月光像絲線一般互相纏繞成一股麻花，生物般碰着我的窗戶。
光辮的前端，一沾黏到窗戶玻璃就離開，再沾一下，又離開，像海葵一樣。
我不知道怎麼反應，只覺得很美。
想伸手碰碰，卻又怕嚇著它。
就這麼看著那光辮，海葵觸角般地活動，好一會兒，打了個哆嗦才想起自己站在戶外。
躡手躡腳地走進房間，回頭再看看那小光辮，還在唏唏嗖嗖地觸着窗戶玻璃。
怎麼覺得就這樣關起窗，留它在外面，它很可憐？
餘光看見咖啡機小抽屜裡，還沒用完的一點咖啡豆粉，靈光一閃，到小廚房拿了裝醬油用的，帶把手的小小白罐，將咖啡豆粉小心翼翼地倒進小小罐裡，再將熱水也輕手輕腳地倒進去。
用舀白糖用的小小湯匙，輕輕劃幾下，一股淡淡的咖啡香就出來了。
可能是神明吧，或精靈，或是什麼漂亮的未知生物。
我決定請它喝咖啡。
這樣它一個人在外面，就不至於那麼可憐寂寞了吧。
將小小罐咖啡放在小白盤上，放在落地窗外面，那小光辮附近的地上。
「這就請你喝啦。」我向那光辮打了個招呼。
那光辮倒是沒什麼反應，還是逕自玩著。
不知哪來的慈父心態，帶著微笑，我溺愛般地嘆了口氣。
「那我要洗澡，睡啦。晚安。」
好像已經把它當人了，看畢那還在玩窗戶的光辮最後一眼，我關上窗，拉上窗帘，走進浴室。
我不知道的是，正當我在澡間扯開嗓子唱歌快活時，那小小的光辮，探向了那杯小小咖啡，很高興的樣子，還稍稍加快速度，上下舞動着。
上班中敲着鍵盤，漫不經心，心思全在那小光辮上。
那小光辮好漂亮呀，到底是什麼呢？今天早上起來，發現小小罐見底了，一定是它喝掉了。
它也喜歡喝咖啡呀，呵呵。
「呵呵。」
「笑什麼呢？今天你很不認真呀阿桑。」
糟糕，笑出來了，還被老闆發現。
「是，老闆，抱歉！」
吐吐舌頭，我擺弄幾下滑鼠，表示在做事。
心神再飛遠，今天，買個高級點的豆子給它喝吧，金絲的嘛，總要高貴點。
嘻嘻，露出微笑。
這次，我忍住沒笑出聲。
在公司附近的咖啡店買到好咖啡豆，提著樸素的牛皮紙袋，我再度走在只有冷白光照耀的小路上。
不過這次不怎麼冷，因為我心裡發燙。
小金絲～小金絲～，好可愛，等我給你泡好咖啡呀。
腳也不自覺地踏起小跳步。抬起頭，哎呀，快滿月了，冷冷的空氣讓月亮格外清晰。
回到小套房，第一件事是衝去拉開窗帘，看看小金絲在不在？
哎呀！在呢在呢，小金絲跟昨天一樣，輕輕地碰著窗戶。
只是這一回，小金絲像是感應到我的出現，慢慢地靠過來。
這讓我很高興，像是有隻野生小貓咪慢慢地對我卸下心房。
「等一下，我來給你泡咖啡，比昨天的好得多呦！」
小金絲像是聽得懂似地，緩緩移到落地窗口，就那麼等在那裡。
我先拿出小金絲專用的小小罐和小小匙，放在茶几上預備。
再把熱水壺拿到爐上燒，接著把古董咖啡機端到茶几上，高級咖啡豆放在旁邊。
拿起剪刀，我慎重其事地在高級咖啡豆的包裝口，剪出一個整齊的開口。
接著，小心地在咖啡機裡頭，倒出適當的量，然後開始磨。
我用自己想象的，小步圓舞曲的節奏，細細地磨着豆子，咖嗒咖搭地響著。
隨著有節奏的聲音，咖啡豆的香味流溢出來，如果這香味是乾冰，就能看見它流瀉出來，緩緩地溢滿整個房間的過程。
「好哩。」
高級咖啡豆在我細心地磨製下，成為細緻的咖啡色粉末，倒在咖啡機的小抽屜裡。我打開小抽屜，拿起小小匙，舀起幾勺，送到小小罐裡。
「唔，這樣該夠了。」
剛好，水煮開了，我提著水壺，倒出一道細長水柱往小小罐裡去。
再拿起小小匙，和一和。
送到小金絲面前，它已經等不及了，立刻就探到小小罐裡。
我看不到它是怎麼喝的，不過過了一會兒，小小罐裡的確空了。
「我再給你倒點。」
給小小罐續了一杯，也去廚房拿自己的杯子，倒出滿滿一杯量，享受起來。
我跟小金絲就這麼舉杯共飲一整晚。
隔天早上，小金絲已經離開了，我沒有睡多少，卻比平時精神。
在公司裡，想著今天再換更高級的豆子吧，這個月支出應該還可以。
又想到昨天看到的月亮，今天該是滿月了。
「沒有想到走在這條路上也可以這麼開心。」
荷包裡只剩一百塊，其他都拿去換成手上牛皮紙袋裡的最高級咖啡豆了。
哼着歌，踢着步，我又走在這條變得可愛的回家小路上，期待着今晚和小金絲的咖啡夜會。
「咦，怎麼回事？」
不是我花了眼，眼前的滿月，怎麼這麼熟悉？
那豐盈的發光體，此刻不是星球，是好多好多的小金絲纏繞在一起，好像成群的魚幼苗，以一種規律游動着，形成圓形。
「小金絲…？」
像是回應我般，從那巨大的金絲集合體，分出一絲線，緩緩地往我的住所飄去。
我加快腳步，最後跑了起來，奔到家門前，以最快速度拿鑰匙，插進鑰匙孔，打開！
果然小金絲已經在窗戶外。
我打開窗戶，看著已經等在那的小金絲，問到：
「小金絲呀，你是月亮來的嗎？今天月亮都不是月亮了，你究竟是什麼呢？」
小金絲沒有回答？
我望著它半响，呼口氣。
「算啦，不管是什麼，小金絲你就是我的咖啡發燒友，這都不會變的。來吧朋友，來喝咖啡，今天我下重本，是頂級的！」
小金絲好像聽得懂我的話，微微上下舞動幾下後，就在老位置等我。
跟昨天的程序差不多，只是今天我和小金絲是同時開始享受咖啡。
坐在小金絲旁邊，我拿著咖啡杯，啜飲，看著那好像是月亮的東西，我感嘆道：
「都說月亮上有嫦娥，有玉兔，日本人說輝夜姬最後也回到那裡。小金絲你也從那來的，你見過他們嗎？」
小金絲從小小罐抬起頭，向著我，無語。
我笑了。
「是嘛，小金絲不會說話的，如果能說話就能聊天囉。」
說完我有些悵然，繼續喝我的咖啡。
小金絲沒有再將頭埋進小小罐裡，感覺在瞧着我。
「小金絲，怎麼啦？阿，對不起呀，是我自己太貪心啦，有你這個咖啡友陪我，就很棒啦。」
下一刻，小金絲轉向那古董咖啡機，緩緩前進。
我還在想小金絲是不是嫌味道淡，想多加些豆粉，下一秒，小金絲就團團捲住咖啡機，還越纏越大，越纏越大，漸漸出現一個形體。
是那個咖啡機把手上雕的女孩。
金絲團呈現的女孩形體，緩緩轉向我。
我不知該怎麼去理解眼前的狀況，只是靜止地拿著咖啡杯，定在原地。
「這個，是我的。」
小金絲，不，還是把手女孩？總之這金燦燦的形體發出聲音了。
「之前，不能來，現在，可以來了。」
把手女孩，又沈默了，只是盯著我看。
過好一會兒，我意識到，她在等我回答，我真是失禮了。
「恩，原來這是小金絲…小姐妳的，那該要還給您。」
把手小姐笑了。
「給你了。」
然後把手小姐消失了，只見小金絲緩緩散開，只餘平時見到的那縷小可愛。
我直盯盯地看著茶几上的古董咖啡機，它好像什麼事都沒發生般，平常地杵在那。
還在發呆的時候，感到手臂有點癢，一望，是小金絲在碰我，這真是難得呀。
「小金絲，剛剛那是你嗎？」
小金絲沒有回答。
它只是慢慢地，慢慢地，向天空中那巨大的金絲集合體飄去。
「小金絲？」
我下意識地查看小小罐，已經空了。
「小金絲，你要走了嗎…？」
小金絲還是沒有回答，只是悠悠地，悠悠地，向天空的同伴們而去。
「小金絲…」
我站起身，拿著已經涼掉的咖啡，佇立在那，望著小金絲越來越遠，直到分不清它和別的金絲為止。
之後，生活也沒有什麼變化。
只是，廚房多了一個白瓷碟子，上頭放著小小罐，小小匙。
並且每晚睡覺前，我的落地窗一定留著一個小縫。
而窗帘，是再也沒有拉上過了。
＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿
Pure white? No—it was a braided form of silvery threads tinged with a pale yellow glow.
I always thought it was the moon.
But it was something else.
On winter nights, walking along empty streets, the cold feels sharper. I only want to hurry through this narrow road lit by cold white streetlamps, to return as quickly as possible to my small studio apartment—barely fifteen square meters—with its precious heating.
It isn’t big, but it’s where I make my life. In a time when salaries and housing prices are so painfully out of proportion, owning a tiny place of one’s own is already a happiness like a bowl of oden on a winter day.
Once inside, I let out a long breath and rush to turn on the heater. Then, without hesitation, I head straight for the coffee machine.
That coffee machine is the only object in the room with any real sense of style. I found it in a secondhand shop. I don’t know why that day, but I wandered into a used-goods store near the MRT station—a place I hadn’t stepped into for more than a decade.
The shop had two floors and was surprisingly spacious. No deliberate signage, no decorative effort—it simply stood there, quietly.
Was this what it meant for time to pool and settle? It felt as if different eras were crowded together, arguing with one another. Walking inside gave me an uncanny sensation, as though I were being watched from every corner.
Just as I was regretting coming in, it was as if an invisible thread tugged at me, drawing my gaze in one direction.
There it was.
On an old side table sat a vintage coffee grinder, the kind with a hand crank. The mechanism was silver; the rest was wood—what kind, I couldn’t say. It radiated a calm, gentle presence, like a smile with eyes closed. Its design was utterly simple, unadorned, except for a small carved figure on the wooden handle: a young girl with a faint smile, her lines clean and minimal.
It cost only five hundred dollars. I paid a thousand and received five hundred in change—a satisfying feeling. The warmth of the wood was the final push that made me buy it.
No special packaging—just a plain white plastic bag.
Holding the small bag, I felt its weight: not heavy enough to burden me, not light enough to feel insubstantial. Suddenly, it struck me that the stark white plastic bag paired with this simple, ancient coffee machine formed a kind of understated elegance.
From that day on, brewing a small cup of coffee with this little machine became my daily ritual.
I pull open the small drawer, pour in the ground beans, add hot water directly into the white cup, and leisurely stir with a small silver spoon.
They aren’t premium beans, and I don’t know if my technique is correct—but as long as the dark liquid ripples with the motion of the spoon and releases its aroma, my cheeks warm with a blush of contentment.
Tonight is no different. Cradling my inexpensive white cup, stirring with the silver spoon, breathing in the scent as the room warms—I am happy.
“Ah…” I exhale, my breath carrying the aroma of coffee. Just as I’m thinking of taking a hot shower and curling up to sleep, a faint sound comes from the window.
What was that? A stray cat?
I walk over and pull aside the curtain, but there’s nothing there.
After a moment of silence, I assume the cat has gone. I draw the curtain closed and head toward the bathroom—when the sound comes again.
This time, my skin prickles.
The warmth of the heater and the comfort of coffee suddenly feel useless as a chill creeps up my spine.
I tell myself there’s nothing to be afraid of.
Stepping onto the balcony, I scan the darkness. The potted plants stand perfectly still. Probably noise from a neighboring apartment, I decide.
But before I can step back inside, the sound comes again.
It’s definitely coming from my balcony—yet there’s nothing there.
Holding my breath, I follow the sound—
It’s moonlight.
Strangely, the moonlight is braided into twisting strands, like a living thing, gently tapping against my window.
The tip of the luminous braid touches the glass, pulls away, touches again—like a sea anemone.
I don’t know how to react. I only know that it’s beautiful.
I want to reach out, but I’m afraid of startling it.
I stand there watching as the light-braid moves its anemone-like tendrils. Only after shivering do I remember I’m standing outside in the cold.
I tiptoe back inside, glancing over my shoulder. The little light braid is still softly brushing the glass.
It suddenly feels cruel to close the window and leave it outside.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice some leftover coffee grounds in the grinder drawer. An idea sparks.
I fetch a small white handled jar—one usually used for soy sauce—and carefully pour in the coffee grounds, then gently add hot water. With a tiny sugar spoon, I stir lightly until a faint coffee aroma rises.
Maybe it’s a god. Or a spirit. Or some beautiful unknown being.
I decide to offer it coffee.
That way, it won’t be so lonely out there.
I place the little jar on a white saucer and set it outside near the light braid.
“This is for you,” I say softly.
The light braid doesn’t respond—it continues to play.
Smiling with a strangely paternal affection, I sigh.
“I’m going to shower and sleep now. Good night.”
I realize I’ve begun treating it like a person.
I close the window, draw the curtain, and head to the bathroom.
What I don’t know is that while I’m singing loudly in the shower, the small light braid leans toward the tiny cup of coffee, clearly delighted, dancing faster as it drinks.
The next day at work, I tap at my keyboard absentmindedly, my thoughts entirely on the light braid.
It’s so beautiful. What could it be?
This morning, the little jar was empty—it must have drunk it all.
It likes coffee too.
“Hehe.”
“What are you laughing at? You’re very distracted today,” my boss says.
Oops. I laughed out loud.
“Yes, sorry!” I reply quickly, wiggling my mouse to look busy.
My thoughts drift again. Tonight, I’ll buy better beans for it. Something worthy of golden threads.
That evening, carrying a plain paper bag of good coffee beans, I walk once more along the cold white-lit road.
But this time, it doesn’t feel cold.
My heart is warm.
Little golden thread… so cute. Wait for me—I’ll make you good coffee.
My steps turn light and bouncy. I look up—the moon is nearly full, crisp in the cold air.
Back home, the first thing I do is pull open the curtain.
It’s there.
Just like last night, gently touching the glass. But this time, it seems to sense me and slowly drifts closer.
I feel absurdly happy—like earning the trust of a shy stray cat.
“Wait a moment—I’ll make you coffee. Much better than yesterday!”
The little golden thread waits obediently by the window.
I prepare everything carefully: the tiny jar, the tiny spoon, the kettle, the antique grinder, the premium beans.
I cut the packaging neatly, pour the beans, and begin to grind—soft clicks marking the rhythm of an imagined waltz.
The aroma spreads, filling the room.
Soon, the coffee is ready.
I serve it.
The little golden thread drinks eagerly.
We spend the whole night sharing coffee.
The next morning, it’s gone.
Days pass.
Life goes on.
But the white saucer, the tiny jar, and spoon remain in my kitchen.
And every night, before sleep, I leave my window slightly open.
The curtain—I never draw it closed again.
