He comes in every Thursday at 10:30 sharp. Always in that same sweater, always with the same quiet nod as he walks past the counter.
He chooses the table by the window. The one with the best view of the street, where you can see the bakery across the road and the little park with the wooden bench.
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And he always orders the same thing: two cups of coffee, one black, one with a splash of cream.
He never drinks the second cup.
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At first, we thought maybe he was meeting someone. But weeks passed. Months. The second cup always sat there, untouched, cooling slowly beside him.
One day, curiosity got the best of me. I gently asked if he was expecting someone.
He smiled—soft and worn—and said, “She used to sit right there. Every Thursday, since ’88. That was our time. I still like to pretend she’s just running late.”
I didn’t know what to say. I simply nodded, understanding that there was something deeper at play here. Something I could never quite grasp, but something that clearly meant a lot to him.
That was the first time he shared a bit of his story. But it wasn’t until weeks later, when I had almost forgotten the conversation, that he came in with something different. A little worn-out notebook, the edges dog-eared and the pages faded with age. He placed it beside the untouched second cup of coffee, and I noticed that his eyes looked a little more distant than usual. A quiet sadness, like he was lost in memories he couldn’t shake.
It wasn’t until he left that day, after I had taken his payment, that I dared ask again.
“Is that… hers?” I pointed to the notebook, the curiosity bubbling up again.
He looked at the notebook, almost as if he had forgotten it was there. A smile flickered on his face, but it was brief. He nodded slowly. “Yes. She used to write in it. When we first met, she told me everything, wrote it all down. I would read it while she was at work. It was our thing. I would read about her thoughts, her day, and then I would write her letters in response. We never really ran out of things to say.”
Something about that—about the idea of handwritten words being exchanged over the years—touched me deeply. There was a tenderness in his voice that made it impossible not to feel the weight of his words.
The next few weeks, the man, whose name I finally learned was George, came in as usual. The notebook remained with him, always by the second cup of coffee. Sometimes, he would open it, skim through a few pages, or just run his fingers over the worn-out cover. But more often than not, he would sit there quietly, letting the silence stretch across the table. I never saw him leave with the notebook. It was always there, like a silent companion to his solitude.
Curiosity gnawed at me, but I didn’t want to push him too much. Still, the mystery of it all lingered in my mind. Who was she? What happened to her? What had their lives been like together?
It wasn’t until one particularly cold Thursday that I got an answer. The weather had turned, and snowflakes drifted lazily down from the sky, coating the streets in a soft blanket of white. The café was quiet that morning, and George had already arrived, his usual chair by the window occupied as always. The notebook was open in front of him, but today, something was different.
He looked up at me when I set down his coffee, and there was a different light in his eyes. A weight had lifted, and in its place was something more peaceful, something almost serene.
“I’ve decided I’m going to stop waiting for her,” George said softly, without preamble. “It’s time. She’s not coming back. I’ve been holding on to this for too long.”
My heart sank a little, but I kept my voice steady. “What happened to her, if you don’t mind me asking?”
George smiled, but it was tinged with sadness. He didn’t seem to mind sharing anymore, and I could tell this was something he had carried alone for far too long.
“Her name was Lily. We met in the park across the street from here, actually. She was sitting on the same bench I still sit on every day. I was in my twenties, working at a job I hated, and she was this vibrant, lively woman who always had a smile on her face. We spent years together—more than two decades. We didn’t have a lot, but we had each other. I didn’t mind the little things—the quiet moments, the shared mornings with coffee, and the late-night talks. It was our little world.”
He paused, looking out the window at the park, the very same park where he first saw her. “Then, one day, she got sick. It came out of nowhere. She fought it, but it wasn’t enough. And she passed. Just like that. I couldn’t let go. She was everything to me. I don’t think I’ll ever love someone the way I loved her.”
The words hung in the air, heavy with the pain of loss. It was hard to believe that the quiet, kind man who came into the café every week had lived through something so heartbreaking. I wanted to say something—anything—to comfort him, but there was nothing I could say that would make the pain go away. Sometimes, there just aren’t words for things like that.
Instead, I simply nodded, offering him a silent understanding.
“I’ve kept the coffee ritual because… I guess I wasn’t ready to let go of the hope. I wanted to pretend, for just a little longer, that she was still here. But it’s time. I’m ready to move on.”
His voice was steady, and for the first time in as long as I’d known him, he looked at peace with his decision.
The following week, George came in as usual, but this time, the second cup of coffee remained untouched. The notebook was gone.
And it wasn’t just the coffee or the notebook that was missing. There was something else, something lighter about him. A quiet acceptance, a sense of moving forward, even if just a little.
From that day on, George still came in every Thursday, but now, when he sat by the window, he didn’t look as if he was waiting for something that would never come. He sat, drank his coffee, and looked out at the world with a soft, peaceful smile.
Months passed, and eventually, he began talking to others in the café. He would chat with the barista about the weather or comment on the news that played quietly on the TV in the corner. He started to bring in little treats to share—cookies, cakes, or sometimes just a kind word for everyone. The man who had once been so wrapped in his own sorrow had found a way to open his heart again, even if only a little.
But the real twist came one day when he was sitting in his usual spot, sipping his coffee, when a woman walked into the café. She was in her early fifties, dressed warmly, with a kind smile on her face. She approached George’s table hesitantly.
“Excuse me,” she said softly, “Are you George?”
His face brightened with recognition, and for the first time in what seemed like forever, his eyes twinkled with excitement.
“Yes! Yes, I’m George. I can’t believe it’s you!”
The woman sat down beside him, and they talked for hours, laughing and reminiscing about their past. It turned out that she had been one of Lily’s closest friends. Over the years, they had lost touch, but now, here she was, sitting next to George, reconnecting with him.
And just like that, George’s life took a turn. He didn’t replace Lily, and he didn’t forget her. But he found something new—a friendship that helped heal old wounds.
The karmic twist of the story was simple: when George let go of the past and allowed himself to move forward, even just a little, life opened a new door for him—one he never expected.
Sometimes, we hold on to things so tightly, afraid to let go, but in doing so, we only trap ourselves in the past. When we finally find the courage to let go, even the smallest step forward can bring us a whole new world of possibilities.
If you’re holding on to something that’s no longer serving you, maybe it’s time to let go. You never know what could be waiting for you on the other side.
If this story resonated with you, share it with someone who needs to hear it today. Let’s remember that sometimes, letting go is the first step toward finding something even better.
