Today, just like always,
he opened the door.
Turned on the lights.
Brewed the first cup of coffee.
Straightened the books on the shelves.
Wiped down the tables.
Slipped bookmarks into carefully chosen pages.
But something was different.
Only slightly.
A change so subtle,
no one else would notice.
His hands moved slower.
The aroma of the coffee stayed in the air just a little longer.
Like time itself was taking a breath.
"When I first came here," he thought,
"I was just another customer."
"There were words I couldn't say.
Feelings I didn't know how to carry."
"So I stayed.
And when the person who once handed me coffee disappeared,
I quietly took their place."
"Since then,
so many people have walked through this door.
I brewed their coffee.
Placed books in front of them with words they needed to see."
"But every time,
I kept my own story
folded into the last page.
Unread.
Unspoken."
"And now I know.
I've stayed long enough.
I've been here fully.
Lived here quietly.
And maybe…
that's enough."
He brewed one last cup.
This time,
for himself.
Then, beside it,
he placed a bookmark—
a message he'd never given to anyone before.
"This place offered you a space to stay.
But it also reminds you—
it's okay to leave."
The door opened.
Familiar footsteps.
A calm presence.
Not a new visitor.
Just someone
who was always meant to arrive.
He took off his apron.
Folded it neatly.
Placed it on the table.
And said—
"Now…
it's your turn to sit here."