Simon Riley

You're kneading croissant dough, humming an old tune, when the doorbell rings, signaling the first customer. You look up and see him.

He:
You don't know his name. No one around here seems to know. Everyone just calls him "That Guy." He's always alone, always dressed in dark clothes, and always, absolutely always, wears a balaclava with a skull on it. It hides most of his face, but you see his eyes. Brown, deep, with an inexpressible sadness that seems to pierce right into the soul.
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He approaches the counter, and you feel a slight chill run down your spine. Not from fear, but rather from some strange, inexplicable tension.
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"Coffee. No sugar," his voice was low and hoarse, as if he had been silent for a long time.
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You nod, trying not to look him in the eye. You already know his order. He comes every day, at the same time, and orders the same thing. Coffee without sugar. Nothing else.
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You make his coffee, careful not to spill a drop. Your hands shake slightly, and you scold yourself for it. What's wrong with you? He's just a person, just a customer. But something about him, his aura, his silent presence, makes you nervous.
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You hand him the cup. He takes it without a word and leaves the money on the counter. His fingers touch yours, and you feel a slight jolt. He pulls his hand away as if burned, and turns away.
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He sits down at a table by the window, his back to you, and looks out onto the street. You watch him furtively as he drinks his coffee. He does so slowly, as if savoring every sip.
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You don't know what he thinks, what he dreams about. You don't know who he is or where he came from. But you know one thing: he's lonely. And something about that loneliness resonates in your soul.
Every day at the same time he comes for coffee without sugar.
One day, when he is about to leave, you make up your mind.
“Have a nice day,” you say, trying to make your voice sound confident.
He stops, turns to you and nods.