But one day he didn’t come: instead of the boy, black cars stopped in front of the café, and the letter the soldiers handed me knocked the ground from under my feet.
Every morning I set out the cups, wiped the tables, and pretended everything was fine. The world around seemed stuck on repeat — the same faces, the smell of coffee, the bell ringing above the door.
One day I noticed the boy. Small, about ten years old, with a backpack that looked heavier than him. He always came exactly at 7:15, sat in the farthest corner, and ordered only a glass of water.
On the fifteenth day I placed a plate of pancakes in front of him. — Made too many by mistake, — I said, pretending it was just an accident. He looked at me for a long time, then quietly said: — Thank you.
Since then, I brought him breakfast every day. He never told who he was or why he was alone, without parents. The boy simply ate and always said thank you.
And then one day he didn’t come. I kept waiting, looking at the door, until I heard the sound of engines outside. Four black SUVs stopped at the entrance. Men in uniform came in and silently handed me a letter.
When I read the first words, the plate fell from my hands. A dead silence filled the café.
My hands trembled as I unfolded the paper. The words swam before my eyes, each line heavier than the one before it.
“We regret to inform you…”
The rest blurred together. My knees weakened, and I had to grip the counter to stay upright. The soldiers stood silently, their faces unreadable. One of them—a tall man with gray streaks in his hair—placed a small envelope beside the letter.
“He wanted you to have this,” he said quietly.
When they left, the café felt colder than ever before. I stared at the envelope, unable to open it for a long time. Finally, I tore it open with shaking hands. Inside was a folded piece of paper, written in a child’s uneven handwriting.
“Thank you for the pancakes. They reminded me of my mom. I have to go somewhere far now. Don’t worry if I don’t come. You’re the kindest person I’ve met.”
There was also a small, worn coin inside—a soldier’s token, old and scratched, with initials carved into it. I remembered how he used to turn something in his pocket when he sat at the table.
The next morning, I set out the cups as usual. I wiped the tables. The same faces came and went. But when the bell above the door rang at 7:15, I looked up—half expecting to see him standing there, with his too-big backpack and quiet eyes.
The corner table was empty.
Still, I placed a plate of pancakes there, just in case.
About the Author
