Every morning I fed a lonely boy

Every morning I fed a lonely boy — secretly, so that the management wouldn’t find out. 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. Continuation in the first comment…