He couldn’t have been more than ten. Every day, at precisely 7:15 a.m., he slipped into the same booth by the window. His backpack sagged heavily against the seat, and a worn paperback sat open in front of him. He never ordered more than a glass of water.
Jenny watched him for days. Always the same. A small nod when she brought the water, a faint “thank you,” then silence. He stayed forty minutes and left, vanishing into the stream of children heading toward school.
“Oh dear,” she said lightly. “The kitchen made an extra. Better for you to eat it than throw it away.”
The boy hesitated, eyes darting from the plate to her face. Then hunger overcame hesitation. Ten minutes later, not a crumb was left.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
From then on, it became their quiet ritual. Pancakes, eggs, oatmeal on cold mornings. He never asked. She never explained. But every plate was eaten clean.
Questions and Criticism
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