Each morning before sunrise, 29-year-old Jenny Millers tied on her apron, unlocked the doors of Rosie’s Diner, and greeted the quiet booths with a soft smile. Tucked between a laundromat and a hardware store in a small Kansas town, Rosie’s wasn’t just her workplace—it was her home, especially after losing both parents and watching her only relative move away.
Her daily routine was simple and familiar—until a young boy began arriving at precisely 7:15 a.m.
He couldn’t have been more than ten, with a nervous energy and eyes that scanned the room, as if searching for something unspoken. He always sat in the same booth, unpacked his worn backpack, and quietly ordered a glass of water. He never drank it. He never spoke. He simply read a book through the morning rush.
By the second week, Jenny couldn’t help but notice him. On the fifteenth morning, she placed a plate of pancakes on his table with a gentle, “Kitchen mixed up an order,” and walked away. Ten minutes later, the plate was clean. “Thank you,” he whispered as she wiped the counter.
After that, Jenny began quietly bringing him small meals—toast on busy mornings, oatmeal on cold ones, scrambled eggs when the wind howled. He never asked for anything, and he never gave his name.
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