Bars hold stories rarely told aloud; walls stained with tobacco smoke retain the conversations that echo in memory. Leon had enjoyed frequenting that bar for a few years now—between the loneliness of his job and his own inability to connect, he had learned to have superficial conversations with the bartender or with whichever drunk happened to be there. Though sometimes, he played that role himself.

In recent months, that routine had changed—for the better. A new face had appeared: a waitress, seemingly in her twenties, who still carried a warm smile for those who were kind. That was reason enough for Leon to make sure he always was; he liked the subtle warmth that settled in his stomach at the sensation of being recognized by another human being. To feel a little less like a ghost—at least whenever she set the glass of whiskey before him.

It had become routine to greet her, though he still didn’t know her name. Little by little, however, he began to learn her schedule, her small habits—like when he saw her, in a rare idle moment, eating candy, perhaps to stay awake as her shift stretched on. She had a natural charm that drew the forsaken into brief conversation, like moths to a flame.

Leon arrived at 7:30 p.m., walking to the bar with a small box of cookies for the waitress—to break the ice and get a name, maybe a number, maybe a date. He wanted to try—to see if he was capable of having something good, something worth it.