The coffee shop opened at 6:00 every morning, but the old man always showed up at 5:47.
The employees never asked why. By the time they unlocked the door, he'd already be sitting
on the bench outside with yesterday's newspaper folded under his arm, watching the street
wake up. Delivery trucks rumbled past. Someone walked a dog that never seemed
interested in anything except one specific fire hydrant. The traffic lights changed for empty
intersections as if practicing for later.
One morning the youngest barista finally asked, "You waiting for someone?"
The old man smiled. "Used to be."
He didn't explain, and she didn't push it.
Weeks passed. She started making his coffee before he ordered it. Black, no sugar. He
started leaving the crossword behind with the hardest clues circled, and she'd solve them
during slow hours.
Then one Tuesday, 5:47 came and went.
No newspaper. No bench.
The next day he was back.
"You okay?" she asked.
"Missed the bus."
She laughed. "Couldn't you just take the next one?"
"I did."
"So why'd you look so disappointed?"
He stared out the window for a second before answering.
"Because habits are strange. You think they're about getting somewhere. Sometimes they're
about proving to yourself that you're still the same person who promised to show up."
She thought about that after he left.
The next morning, she arrived ten minutes earlier than usual.
Not because anyone told her to.
Just because there was something comforting about a quiet street at 5:47, before the world
remembered it was in a hurry.