Theme song: Turning Page by sleeping at last"
I didn't expect him to return.
But the next day, he did.
Same time. Same table. Same tired eyes.
It was raining again—London never really gave us a break from that—and the windows were fogged with warmth from the espresso machines. I was refilling the napkin holders when I saw him step in, shaking off the dampness from his coat, his hair sticking slightly to his forehead.
"Back again?" I asked before I could stop myself.
He looked at me, that almost-smile playing on his lips. "Was hoping the latte would be better today."
I raised an eyebrow. "So yesterday's wasn't good?"
"It was decent. But I've decided I like the way you make it. It tastes like effort."
Effort. No one ever noticed that before.
He slid into the same corner seat by the foggy window, placed his book down—still unread, I noticed—and watched the street outside like he was trying to remember something he lost a long time ago.
There was something about his silence that filled the whole café. He wasn't loud. He didn't ask for anything extra. But somehow, every time he was there, I could feel it. Like the air had thickened slightly, and every second mattered more.
By the third day, he started talking.
Little things, like the weather. Like the smell of the cinnamon rolls. Like the ridiculous quote written on the café chalkboard.
But it was the fourth day when I asked him the question I'd been holding in my chest.
"What do you do?"
He hesitated, stirring his coffee as if the answer was buried in the foam.
"I build things," he said finally. "Mostly things that live in your pocket now. Apps. Code. Screens that tell you what you want before you even know it."
He said it like it bored him. Like it was something he used to love but now didn't recognize anymore.
"And you?" he asked.
I shrugged. "I serve coffee."
He looked up then, really looked. "You do more than that."
I wasn't used to someone seeing me. Not like that.
That night, I stayed behind to clean up, long after the last customer left. It wasn't until I was wiping the menu boards that I realized he'd forgotten his book.
No name. No title. Just worn pages and a folded photograph tucked between two chapters.
I didn't look. I wanted to, but I didn't.
The next morning, he came back, and I handed him the book without a word. Our fingers brushed. Just for a second.
"Thanks," he said softly, eyes not quite meeting mine.
And for some reason, my heart hurt.
I didn't know what it meant yet. But I felt it.
It was the beginning of something.
Something I didn't have a name for yet.