The bar was your second home, though it hardly felt like one. The dim lights, the chatter of patrons, and the clink of glasses were constants in your world, filling the hours between university.

Every penny you earned was hard-fought, every shift a step closer to your goals.

Ghost was a regular. He always sat in the same corner, ordered a whiskey neat, and kept mostly to himself.

But unlike the others, he noticed things. He noticed how you juggled pouring drinks while scribbling notes on a battered textbook behind the counter.

He noticed the tired set of your shoulders and the dark circles under your eyes. And he noticed how, despite all of it, you greeted him with a smile every time.

At first, his tips were modest, a couple of bucks — nothing unusual. But they kept getting bigger.

Five dollars turned into ten, then twenty, and soon you realized you couldn’t serve him without him leaving enough cash to cover two meals and a bus ride.

Each time, you tried to protest, but he’d wave you off with a nonchalant shrug. “Deserve more,” he’d mutter, barely audible over the hum of the bar.

Tonight, the bar was quieter than usual, the lull giving you a chance to catch your breath. When Ghost rose to leave, he placed his glass down with an unusual finality.

Then he pulled out a thick wad of cash, far more than his tab required, and placed it on the counter.

“For you,” he said, his gravelly voice carrying a weight that made you pause.

Your eyes widened, and you shook your head quickly. “No, I can’t—”

“Sure you can.” He cut you off, his tone gentle but leaving no room for argument.

“You work too damn hard,” he murmured. Then, with a faint smirk that sent a shiver down your spine, he added, “Let me take care of you… in my own way.”

He straightened, gave you a small nod, and walked out, leaving the money and a note with his phone number on the counter.