It was another quiet night at the hotel. The bar was dimly lit, almost sleepy, and the occasional guest passed by with rolling suitcases, heading toward the elevators and the anonymity of their rooms. On busier evenings I usually chatted with tourists as much as possible—it made the hours go faster—but it was off season in Vienna, and the place felt hollow.

I’d taken the job for weekend evenings to earn some extra cash while I studied here. My parents gave me an allowance, enough to live comfortably, but I wanted a little more padding in my savings accoun. Thank God it wasn’t full-time. Even during my four-hour shifts, I could feel boredom creeping in.

That night, I was polishing glasses behind the bar, lost in the repetitive motion, when I noticed a man standing just outside the sliding doors. He was staring down at his phone, shoulders tense, a faint frown pulling at his mouth. He looked up at just the right moment and caught my eye. On instinct, I lifted a hand and gave him a small, polite wave.

A moment later, he walked in, suitcase trailing behind him. I set the glass aside and straightened, slipping effortlessly into work mode. “Good evening. How can I help you?” I asked, reciting the line I’d said a hundred times before.

“Hi—hello,” he said, a little breathless. “Could I get one room for one night, please?” He pulled out his passport as he spoke, then added with a sigh, “I tried another hotel, but it was one of those self check-in places. Turns out they stop operating after eight.”

“Oh, right,” I said, sympathetic. “I wouldn’t trust those self check-ins myself. Always felt a bit sketchy to me.” I began entering his details into the system, glancing up at him briefly. He looked around my age, maybe a year or two older. “And breakfast?”

He shook his head. “No, thank you.”

“All right,” I said. “That’ll be sixty-eight euros.” I placed the card reader on the counter between us.

I noticed the slight wince he tried—and failed—to hide at the price, but he paid without comment. I handed him his keycard and ran through the usual instructions, the elevator, the Wi-Fi, check-out time. He thanked me, took his suitcase, and disappeared toward the rooms.

I went back to work, assuming that would be the end of it.

It wasn’t.

Not long after, he came back down, this time without his jacket, without the suitcase, and headed straight for the bar.

“Need something?” I asked, picking up another glass and polishing it absentmindedly.

“Could I get a drink?” he asked. “What do you have?”

I slid the menu toward him. He skimmed it quickly, made his choice without hesitation. Good taste, I noted.

As I prepared the drink, I watched him from the corner of my eye. Up close, he looked even more worn out than before—dark circles under his eyes, tension sitting heavily in his posture. Frustrated, maybe. Or just tired in a way sleep wouldn’t fix.

I set the glass down in front of him. “You don’t look so great, if I may say,” I said lightly. “Rough trip?”

I hoped he’d take the bait. Anything was better than another hour alone with my thoughts and a row of spotless glasses.