The quietest shop in Tokyo

The shop opens at seven, and Mutjo opens a little before that, so the shop has company.

Dawn exterior of a tiny shuttered Japanese matcha café on an empty suburb street, a black cat crossing, distant train, soft grey-gold light

The same café shopfront, title-card composition: the closed door centered, one paper lantern, generous empty space above

Interior: a tired young Japanese barista unlocking and switching on one hanging lamp over a wooden counter, kettle silhouette

He is twenty-four, going on twenty-five, and tired in a way sleep has never once fixed. By day he keeps the smallest matcha shop on our street — four seats, one kettle, no queue to speak of. In the English village where I misspent several excellent years, they would have called it a proper little establishment. Here we simply call it Mutjo's, and consider the matter settled.

Close-up of careful hands warming a tea bowl and sifting bright green matcha powder through a small sieve

Macro shot of a bamboo whisk whisking matcha, perfect foam forming, steam curling through window light

Wide interior: the barista alone behind the counter of a four-seat café, one perfect bowl of matcha, empty stools, clock on wall

What he keeps instead of customers is a routine: warm the bowl, sift the powder, whisk until the foam stands up properly. He does it beautifully. Nobody watches. In the back room, in a jar he never speaks of — not even to the kettle, and he tells the kettle most things — there is a small quantity of shimmering green dust from another version of his life.

The barista drinking the matcha himself by the window, quiet and resigned, street empty outside

The dim back room: shelves of old notebooks and tinkerer's tools, one small glass jar of faintly glowing green dust

Close-up: his hand hovering over the glowing jar, not touching, half in shadow

He locks up at seven, bows to the shop as one does, and says tomorrow will be the same as today. He is, I'm pleased to say, quite wrong.

Evening exterior: the barista locking the shop door, his reflection alone in the dark glass

The dark empty café interior at night, and on the back shelf one tiny green pinprick of light

Closing frame: the whole dark street asleep, the café window holding one faint green glow