The Sunlit Cafe

It was a little café, made of more glass than bricks. Sunlight streamed inside through the glass walls. Small tables with yellow checkered covers and a pair (or trio) of wooden chairs lined those walls. The air, rich with the scent of pastries and fresh bread, tormented the starving children outside. They often peered in, pressing their greasy noses and fingers against the glass—until they were shooed away by the waiters.

Their only hope and solace was "Motu Didu" (fat granny), an old, plump woman. She would often hand them a cookie or a cupcake on her way out of the café while her husband smiled at her.

She hadn’t been here for a few months now. With little hope of seeing her again, her memory had already begun to fade from their young minds.

So today, when "Motu Didu"’s husband walked into the café, none of the children noticed. They were too busy selling balloons and flowers. Had they seen him, they would have known—the world had shifted off its axis and fallen backward, at least for the old man.

He was alone, unfocused, and unsmiling. For the first time in a decade, he did not acknowledge the staff’s greetings. He didn’t even sit at his usual spot, though he stood in front of that sunlit table for quite some time, looking at it with a profound longing before hastily turning away and retreating to a dark corner.

He sat at a table for two but felt completely out of place. Trying to avoid the curious glances of a few servers, he focused his attention on the object in front of him—an empty chair. He looked at it. He stared at it. He kept staring until the world around him disappeared.

A rude, impatient throat-clearing pulled him back to reality. He looked up, confused. His own confusion was reflected back at him, along with a hint of exasperation, in the eyes of a young new server. The server raised his eyebrows, waited, and then, after a sigh that suggested he had repeated himself a hundred times, said, "Sir, your order?"—his courtesy clearly forced.

Embarrassed, the old man mumbled, "The usual."

With barely concealed irritation, the server turned and walked away. The old man went back to staring at the chair. Then, suddenly and hastily, he stood up, grabbed the chair with barely restrained anger, dragged it out, shoved it near another table, and swiftly returned to his seat. Then, he began to stare at the wall.

He became a regular again. The two-seater table in the dark corner was now a table for one. His coffees were no longer black and sugar-free; they were now lattes and cappuccinos, served one after another, next to an ever-growing pile of torn, empty sugar packets. It became routine for him to ignore the staff’s greetings—and for them to stop greeting him at all.

Some of the older employees might have approached him with casual concern, offering supportive words, but he couldn't be sure. He wasn’t paying attention. He sat stiffly in his chair, his gaze fixed on the wall or the newspaper. Only occasionally, in rare stolen moments, did he glance at his old sunlit table.

Beyond that sunlit table was the glass wall, covered in dirt-laden fingerprints left by the children outside. They still pressed their faces to the glass, staring longingly inside, hoping to find another "Motu Didu."