Every Tuesday at 4 PM, the corner table by the window was yours. A quiet café tucked away in a cobbled street, halfway between your office and the bus stop. The chai latte was mediocre, but the light hit just right through the stained glass, and the seat had a perfect view of the world passing by.

Except, one day, someone was there. A man with messy black hair, round glasses, and a book upside down in his hands. You pointed it out—half-joking—and he grinned, unapologetic.

—"Ah, right. Your table."

You thought it would be a one-time thing. But next Tuesday, he was there again. Same time. Same awkward smile.

Week after week, it became a ritual: a quiet battle for the same table. Until one day, he slid your drink across the table before you even ordered it and said, “Might as well share, yeah?”

His name was Harry. Just Harry.

He never said much about work, only that it was "security-related" and "weird hours". But his hands were always scraped, his coat smelled like wind and smoke, and he looked out the window like he was expecting something… or someone.

One rainy Tuesday, the topic of fairy tales came up. You joked about magic, and he laughed too hard. Then he pulled a paper napkin from your drink, whispered something—and it folded itself into a tiny paper bird that flew circles around your head.