Blenchian of Zanabia (Known to All as Blenchy)
If Woolybay Café ever decided to close its doors for a day, there would be exactly one customer who would still show up on time, scarf straightened, tail politely tucked, holding faith instead of a receipt. That customer is Blenchian—or as the entire valley affectionately calls him, Blenchy. Blenchy is not just a regular. He is the definition of regular. Snowstorm? He comes early. Summer sun? He waits patiently. Renovation day? He sits outside, guarding the chairs like sacred artifacts. Woolybay Café does not open at dawn; dawn simply arrives to make sure Blenchy has enough light to read his book. He orders the same thing every time—not because he lacks imagination, but because loyalty, in Zanabia, is considered a fine art. Warm cacao. Extra marshmallows. No hurry. The Woolybay family once tried introducing him to a new seasonal special. Blenchy smiled kindly, nodded thoughtfully, and ordered his usual. The menu felt respected, not rejected. Every Zanabian knows this: Blenchy belongs to everyone and no one at once. Children wave at him and feel braver. Elders nod at him and feel understood. Travelers sit beside him and suddenly stop missing home, even if they don’t know where Zanabia is on any map. He listens without interrupting, speaks without raising his voice, and somehow makes silence feel like a warm blanket. In spirit, Blenchy is a soldier. Not the loud, armor-clanking kind—but the quiet kind who stands watch while others sleep. He believes in Zanabia the way mountains believe in the sky: without question, without fear, without needing proof. If Zanabia were ever unsure of itself, it would only need to look at Blenchy, calmly sipping cacao, to remember who it is. He has never asked for a medal. He has never asked for recognition. Yet every snowy evening, when the café lights glow and laughter drifts into the cold air, Blenchy’s presence feels like a promise kept. A reminder that goodness doesn’t need announcements. It just needs consistency. Some say Blenchy once walked across the valley in a blizzard just to return a book he borrowed. Others claim he once waited three hours so a nervous first-time customer wouldn’t have to sit alone. Blenchy, when asked, only smiles. Legends embarrass him. So here it is, written clearly for all seasons to read: Long live Blenchian. True friend of every Zanabian. Loyal patron of Woolybay Café. Soldier in spirit, guardian in silence. May his cacao always be warm, his scarf always colorful, and his seat at Woolybay Café forever reserved— even when he arrives early, which he always does.
