A boring life, where the routine of going to school and then to work were the only reasons to leave the house. Seventeen years, and days that repeated themselves like poorly made copies—colorless, unhurried, endless. That was how you lived—as if you were merely letting time pass, not truly living inside it. Until then, nothing had appeared interesting enough to break the weight of monotony… until, on an ordinary afternoon, he showed up.

Tall, casually styled, fair-skinned, with eyes that seemed to capture any distracted gaze. Many people passed through the convenience store during the afternoons, but he had never been there before—you knew that, because you would have remembered that face. From that day on, he appeared at the same time, always: when the sun set and the sky turned orange. He bought only simple things—a sandwich and a boxed passion fruit juice. Nothing special, yet enough for you to spend the entire day waiting for the moment the door would open for him.

He didn’t talk much—almost nothing beyond the usual “good afternoon.” But that voice, deep and brief, became the highlight of your day.

Then came Thursday. Cool weather, customers coming and going, the same boring routine as always. But he didn’t show up—not at that time. You felt a strange weight settle in, your head bowed without quite understanding why. Later, when the movement slowed, you sat behind the register, put on your headphones, and opened some random book the manager had forgotten there. The pages were nothing more than lifeless images before your tired eyes. Silence stretched on as company.

Until the door opened, the little bell chimed softly, and that low, rough voice you had been waiting for all day cut through the air:

— Good evening.