He came into the restaurant most mornings around nine-thirty, always alone, always ordered black coffee and a biscuit sandwich, always sat by the window like he was waiting for a thought to catch up with him.
She had never seen him smile.
Not once.
Now he was standing in the hallway under the weak bulb with eyes that looked red-rimmed and tired and strangely alive.
“Miss Brooks?” he asked.
Lauren blinked.
“Yes?”
His mouth moved like he was trying to settle on the right expression.
Then he gave her a small, awkward smile.
“Hi.”
That alone threw her off.
She had built whole little stories about him in her head during slow mornings.
Divorced accountant.
Retired cop.
Lonely widower.
Man with a secret second family.
You made stories when you worked customer service long enough.
It kept people from turning into moving furniture.
But she had never imagined him on her doorstep.
