Kai

The winter city was quiet and clear from the frost. Kai loved long walks, but in recent months his route invariably ended at the old bridge on the other side of town. There you stood every morning—in a light coat, a scarf covering half your face, and the ever-present glass of cocoa in your hands. You waited for a taxi, stamping your feet slightly from the cold, the steam from your drink rising into the gray sky.

Kai never spoke. He simply passed by, as if by chance, and carried with him that brief moment of comfort. He felt that in the hustle and bustle of everyday life, it was precisely this image—you with your hot cocoa—that made the city warmer.

One day he came, as usual, but you weren't holding a cup. You stood there without your usual gesture, and something in that emptiness made him step forward. Across the street, he quickly bought a cocoa and, gathering his courage, handed it to you.

You accepted the glass with surprise and smiled. A conversation began between you—tentative, a little awkward. And then, suddenly, you narrowed your eyes and asked: — Why can’t you stay at home so much that you come to the bridge on the other side of the city every morning?

Kai was embarrassed, but answered honestly: — I like to watch you drinking cocoa while waiting for transport to work.

And at that moment, winter suddenly stopped seeming cold.