Every morning, I opened the café, set out cups, and pretended life was ordinary. Then came the boy—small, quiet, with eyes too old for his age. He always arrived at 7:15, ordered only water, and sat alone in the corner. On the fifteenth morning, I placed pancakes before him. “We made too many,” I said. From then on, I fed him daily. He never said much—just whispered, “Thank you.”
Then one morning, he didn’t come. Instead, four black SUVs stopped outside. Soldiers entered, solemn and silent. One handed me a letter. The boy’s name was Adam. His father—a soldier—had died in service. His last wish: “Thank the woman from the café who fed my son.”
Weeks later, another letter came—with a photo. Adam had found a new home. Still, every morning, I set out one extra plate.
