The Full Moon Coffee Shop

by Mai Mochizuki

Genres: Fantasy; Contemporary Fantasy; General Fiction; Magical Realism

Synopsis

Translated from the Japanese bestseller, a charming and magical novel that reminds us it’s never too late to follow our stars.

“Mochizuki dazzles in her beautifully crafted contemporary fantasy debut. . . . This gentle fantasy is not to be missed.”—Publishers Weekly, starred review

In Japan, cats are a symbol of good luck. As the myth goes, if you are kind to them, they’ll one day return the favor. And if you are kind to the right cat, you might just find yourself invited to a mysterious coffee shop under a glittering Kyoto moon.

This particular coffee shop is like no other. It has no fixed location, no fixed hours, and it seemingly appears at random.

It’s also run by talking cats.

While customers at the Full Moon Coffee Shop partake in cakes and coffees and teas, the cats also consult their star charts, offering cryptic wisdom, and letting them know where their lives veered off course.

Every person who visits the shop has been feeling more than a little lost. For a down-on-her-luck screenwriter, a romantically stuck movie director, a hopeful hairstylist, and a technologically challenged website designer, the coffee shop’s feline guides will set them back on their fated paths. For there is a very special reason the shop appeared to each of them . . .

Release date: August 20, 2024

Publisher: Ballantine Books

Print pages: 240

Sample

Chapter 1

Aquarius Trifle

Mizuki Serikawa

Delicious.

Even if I did say so myself. Instant ramen topped with vegetables and spring onion: not the most elegant meal, but one that never failed to hit the spot.

I took my empty bowl to the kitchen, gave it a quick rinse, and set it on the dish rack. Then I took a cloth and gave the dining table a thorough wipe. It was barely big enough for one person to eat at. In my tiny apartment, this was where I ate and worked.

I poured myself a coffee, positioned my laptop back on the table, and sat down. Then, taking a sip from my mug, I began flicking through my reference materials.

I was looking at a character sheet, its pages packed with illustrations of a handsome young man.

What’s this guy’s story again . . . ?

He was supposed to be the son of a rich and distinguished family, but his hair was a mix of red, blue, and yellow, and he didn’t look very distinguished to me. But then again, we were talking about a video game here. People didn’t care too much about the details.

I wrote scripts for a living. Right now, I was working on one for a mobile dating game. Not the main script—someone else was doing that. My job was to write the script for when the player ended up with a supporting character rather than the “happy ending” where they managed to win the heart of the hero. It was a middle-of-the-road sort of ending, which meant the script had to be pretty middling, too. The idea was that the player would feel vaguely dissatisfied by the outcome, but would also keep playing the game.

It wasn’t a very long script, either. A thirty-kilobyte episode. It must be only video-game writers who have their work measured not in pages or words, but in kilobytes. I checked my instructions.

End with a scene where he kisses her on the cheek or forehead. Location should be near a body of water.

Right. No kissing on the lips. As for the body of water . . . the male character was supposed to be the indoor type, so a seaside or river didn’t quite feel right. A hotel pool would do the trick.

I leafed through the pages, then opened up my notepad. The writing inside was such a squiggly mess that anyone else would struggle to decipher it. It outlined my plot—if you could call it that—for the character.

When writing the side character, the goal was always to make the player feel slightly frustrated, so they’d think to themselves: I don’t like how that turned out—guess I’ll have to try dating the hero if I want my happy ending!

That meant including a lot of failed dates, and any love scenes had to be pretty subdued affairs. In its own way, it was pretty challenging work.

When I’d finished reviewing my notes, I started to write. Soon the sound of my fingers tapping away at my computer keyboard fell into step with the music I was playing.

Most of the game scripts I worked on were pretty conventional. I was good at writing stories like that, so I enjoyed the work. Of course, I’d have preferred to write the love scenes for the hero.

But that’s more than I can ask for at this point—even if it was true I’d once worked on much more important things. I tried to clear my head and get back to writing.

Thirty kilobytes could be various page lengths, depending on the amount of text, but it was basically the length of a short story. When I was about a third of the way through, I sat up in my chair and straightened my back. The clock showed three in the afternoon.

I’ve only been working for two hours?

So that was how long I could focus for these days—two whole hours. The Mizuki of a decade ago would have just been getting started. . . . Just then, my phone vibrated on the table.

Mizuki, it’s been a long time! This is Akari Nakayama. Sorry to be so last-minute, but I’m in the Kansai area on business. In fact, I’m in Kyoto right now. Do you have time to meet?

The sight of the sender’s name was enough to set my heart racing. Akari worked at the TV production company I used to write for. She was a director these days. A month ago, I’d plucked up all my courage and sent her a TV pitch. She seemed to be in Kyoto on other business, but the fact that she’d even bothered to get in touch had to mean she wanted to talk about it.

I wrote back:

Of course! Would love to meet up.

Her reply came soon after.

Wonderful. How about the lobby of that hotel where we used to have our meetings? Can you be there in an hour?

I replied:

No problem.

I immediately closed my computer and opened the door to the tiny storage room I was using as a closet. Not knowing what to wear, I ended up plumping for the safety of a suit.

I stood in front of the washbasin. There was no room for a dresser in my apartment, so my makeup kit lived by the basin. I got out my foundation and started dabbing it onto my skin.

Urgh, why does it look so weird?

I hadn’t been out much recently, except to the nearby supermarket, and I wasn’t going to put on makeup for that; I just wore a face mask instead. My skin, surprised by this abrupt reacquaintance with the world of cosmetics, seemed to have decided it was having none of it. I used to put a lot of effort into this kind of thing. In fact, the old me would have laughed if she could see me now.

Still, no use complaining. I carried on applying my makeup, painting my eyebrows, and putting on lipstick, then threw on a light cardigan, grabbed my bag, and headed out. Leaving the apartment block, I made my way toward the station. Technically, I lived in Kyoto. But my neighborhood was a far cry from the beautiful, old-world image most people had of the city. In fact, it was no different from your average residential area.

I boarded my train and settled into my seat with a sigh of relief.

Another message from Akari:

The lobby was busy, so I’ve moved to the ground-floor café. I’m just getting some work done, so there’s no rush.

I could just picture her in the hotel café with her laptop open. Like a lot of people in the TV industry, she could work anywhere. I used to be like that—scribbling away in cafés and all sorts of places. Recently, though, I’d been staying at home unless I had some reason to go out. Why waste money on a cup of coffee? It was the same with food. I mainly ate instant meals, sometimes adding vegetables in a vague attempt to be healthy. That was probably the reason why my skin was looking so bad . . .

I looked down at my phone and checked the ratings and reviews for my last drama, which was currently airing. I felt a pang in my chest, and quickly averted my eyes from my phone.

There were some more kids on the train, perhaps on their way home from primary school. Year two or three, by the looks of it. Instead of the usual firm-sided school backpacks, they were sporting chic brown leather bags—a sign they went to a private school. They were riding the train to school all by themselves. Good for them, I thought.

“Excuse me,” came a low voice from my side. “Are you . . . Miss Serikawa?”

My heart skipped a beat. I stared in bewilderment at the woman sitting next to me. She looked as if she were in her midtwenties, though she had such a calm presence that I wondered if she might be a little older.

Even a quick glance told me she was fashionable; her short but carefully manicured nails and her lightly colored hair all made me think she might work in the beauty industry. Maybe she used to be my stylist?

“Sorry, I hope I didn’t startle you. I was actually one of your pupils at primary school . . .”

Ah, I thought, the tension dissipating from my shoulders. An old pupil. That made sense.

“You were a really great teacher, you know.”

I gave an embarrassed shrug in response.

Back then I’d been no more than a substitute. I only really came into contact with the pupils when one of the main teachers was on leave. It was great that this woman thought I had been a good teacher, but I didn’t remember us ever spending enough time together to warrant that sort of praise.

“You used to accompany us home after school,” she added, seeming to notice my confusion.

It was true that I’d often walked the kids home. Their main teacher was always busy preparing classes, so the job naturally fell to the substitute. Still, it wasn’t always plain sailing. You never knew what the younger kids would do next, so you had to really keep your eye on them. Sometimes just getting them to line up and walk in a straight line was a challenge. As they walked, I’d try to come up with all sorts of ways to stop them from getting bored—starting a game of word association or engaging them in conversation.

“Brings back memories,” I said, smiling at her with a rush of nostalgia.