Ney

In the small seaside town, autumn always arrived with fog. Every morning, Ney would go to the old coffee shop by the lighthouse and write letters there—not to send, but to remember your voice. He knew little about you: your favorite tea, your habit of gazing at the sea during rain, and a phrase he'd left on a napkin before disappearing: "Sometimes people meet at the wrong time."

A year later, the coffee shop door rang again. Ney looked up and froze: there you were, standing by the window, wearing the same gray coat, your hair wet from the rain. It seemed you, too, couldn't believe this was actually happening.

You slowly walked up to his table, noticed a stack of unsent letters, and quietly asked:

— Have you been writing to me all this time?

Ney smiled, hiding the tremor in his voice, and answered:

— And you... were planning to come back all this time?