oThe old man ordered two coffees every morning – one for himself, and one for someone who never came. He always chose the same table by the window, carefully placing the second cup across from him as if it still belonged to someone important.
Day after day, the routine never changed. He would sit quietly, occasionally glancing at the empty chair, as if expecting it to be filled at any moment. The coffee in the second cup would slowly grow cold, untouched, yet never removed. It was a silent ritual that no one questioned—until one day.
The waitress, who had been watching this for weeks, finally gathered the courage to ask, “Who are you waiting for?” The old man smiled gently, his eyes soft with memory. “My wife,” he said. “We used to come here every day. This was our place.” His voice carried both warmth and sadness.
The next morning, something different happened. When he arrived, two fresh cups of coffee were already waiting at the table. Confused, he looked up—only to see the waitress sitting across from him. “I didn’t want you to drink alone today,” she said softly. And in that moment, the empty chair didn’t feel so empty anymore.
