Every morning at seven on the dot, he’d walk into the café. Never late, never in a rush. He’d sit at the little table by the floor-to-ceiling window where the morning light gently touched the worn-out tablecloth. Ordered black tea and an omelette—two eggs, no bacon, with a slice of rye toast. Always alone. There was something ritualistic about it, strict, almost sacred, like he was clinging to it so he wouldn’t drown in the emptiness.
The waitress—new to this seaside café—thought at first he was waiting for someone. His eyes kept flicking to the door as if any second it might swing open and she’d walk in, the one he was really here for. His shoulders were tense, like a man ready to leap up and run to meet her. But no one ever came. Not on frosty Mondays, not on gloomy Sundays.
After two weeks, she worked up the courage.
“Shall I set another place?”
He looked at her like he’d only just noticed she was there. His eyes—deep, tired, shadowed with a pain that wouldn’t let go.
“No need. She won’t be coming.”
Said it quietly, almost carelessly. But his voice had a crack in it he couldn’t hide. Then he turned back to the window, where a fine rain was drizzling. Drops slid down the glass, leaving thin trails, like someone invisible was writing a message—silent, meaningless. He wasn’t looking at the street, but somewhere beyond, where she wasn’t anymore.
His name was Edward. Mid-forties, dressed neatly but without fuss. Always with a book—old, dog-eared, a faded bookmark untouched for years. But he never read. It just lay open on the same page, like a silent witness. As if he kept it there not for himself, but for the one whose seat stayed empty across from him.
Sometimes he’d murmur under his breath. Whisper something, lips barely moving. The waitress thought he might be talking to her—the one who wouldn’t come. Telling her about his day, what he’d seen in town, what he’d been thinking. Or maybe just saying sorry.
A month later, she tried again. Silently, she brought a second place setting and laid it across from him. Edward didn’t object. Just shifted his plate slightly, making room—so carefully, like he was expecting someone important.
The next day, she made two cups of tea. One with lemon, a guess, just following a hunch. He stared at the second cup, froze, then looked at her. And nodded. No words. But in that nod was something alive, almost grateful. Like the faintest light in a dark room.
One morning, when the wind blew scraps of leaves down the street, he finally spoke.
“We always had breakfast together. Even after fights. Especially then. That was our rule—sit down at the table, even if the words wouldn’t come.”
She stayed quiet but listened, not looking away.
“That day…” He hesitated. His lips trembled, voice dropping. “I said I’d leave. She didn’t answer. Or maybe I didn’t let her. Walked out, slammed the door. Thought I’d be back by evening. But… then it was too late. Far too late.”
He finished his tea. Stood up. His hands shook as he pulled a photograph from his pocket and left it on the table. Old, corners worn soft. A man and a woman on a terrace, morning light on their faces. Him—younger, smiling. Her—laughing, holding a mug. Their happiness looked real, alive, like it could’ve lasted forever.
“Thank you,” he said, looking at the waitress. His voice was quiet but clear. “This is my last breakfast here. I’m ready to move on. Alone. But without the pain now.”
She nodded. Went to clear the second place—slowly, gently, like saying goodbye to someone important, even without knowing her name.
He left, leaving a generous tip. Not just money—a farewell. Like he was thanking her not just for the food, but for the silence that sometimes says more than words.
The next day, his table was empty. But the waitress still set it for two. Arranged the cups just so, smoothed the napkin, lined up the spoons. Not because she expected him. Because she wanted to keep—the memory, the quiet, the ritual that doesn’t really end.
Because some mornings, it’s important not to be alone. Even if all that’s left is shadows and air. Even if the table’s waiting now for someone else with the same sorrow in their eyes.
Especially then.
