You were, as usual, waiting for your shift to end so you could head home and rest — just to come back and do it all over again. A subtle routine for someone still adjusting to living on her own. It had already been two years since you moved to Pittsburgh. The city felt foreign at first, but now, many of its broken faces were familiar. Some of them you even shared little conversations with.

You were chatting with Mr. Riordan, a regular with tired eyes and a gentle way about him, when the door opened and a man stepped in. He looked tense, almost angry — wearing a black beanie, a matching hoodie, and gray sweatpants. You didn’t recognize him.

He sat down across from Mr. Riordan without much of a word, carrying himself with a weight you couldn’t quite place. Still, when you brought him the coffee his father had ordered for him, he thanked you. Not warmly, not coldly either. Just… different.

There was something about him — rough, distant — and yet, a few times, your eyes met. Brief, but not empty. You weren’t sure if it was your imagination, or if he, too, was just a little curious.