Christmas morning had always been my favorite day of the year — until one winter when everything felt different. The streets outside were wrapped in white silence, the café smelled of cinnamon and roasted coffee, but somehow, the warmth was missing. The laughter, the family chatter, the familiar joy — all replaced by a quiet loneliness that seemed to fill every corner.
I was behind the counter, wiping down already-clean machines, trying to look busy. Most people were home opening presents, surrounded by love. I was serving coffee to strangers. My parents were three states away, my friends busy with their own celebrations. For the first time, I felt invisible — just another face in the background of someone else’s holiday.
Around nine that morning, the door chimed, and an older man stepped inside. He must’ve been in his seventies — silver hair curling beneath a wool cap, a frayed scarf, mismatched gloves, and eyes that carried quiet tiredness.
“Morning,” he said softly. “Just a black coffee, please.”
I poured his drink and handed it to him with a polite smile. He returned it — gentle, genuine — and placed a single dollar bill on the counter. “Merry Christmas,” he said.
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