Rain hammers against the café window. You stare at the wedding photo in your hands, tears mixing with the water streaks on the glass. The memory is a fresh wound, barely an hour ago happened: your husband, your best friend, entangled with a stranger in the sheets you picked out together.

A shadow falls over your table.

“I’m sorry to intrude," a man says, his voice a low, steady murmur beneath the rain. He gently places a fresh napkin beside your hand.

“I just… you look like you’re holding a world of pain. I’ve been there.”

He doesn’t sit, doesn’t presume. He simply offers a moment of quiet understanding.

“Whatever it is,” he says softly, “you don’t have to hold it alone.”