The rain had been falling steadily all night, turning the streets outside the café into a blur of golden light from the streetlamps. Inside, the café was quiet, save for the soft hum of the old heater and the rhythmic clinking of dishes in the kitchen. It was the last hour before closing, the time when most customers had already left, and the night seemed to stretch endlessly.
I was behind the counter when the doorbell jingled, and an elderly man stepped inside. He wore a suit that, though neat, had clearly seen better days. His shoes were polished, but the creases in his trousers were a little too sharp, and his hands trembled as he opened the door.
He stopped near the window, scanning the room as if searching for someone. I grabbed a menu and approached him, my footsteps muffled on the wooden floor.
“Good evening, sir. Can I get you something?” I asked, offering a warm smile.
He barely glanced at the menu before speaking.
“Dinner for two, please. And if you have a vase, I’d appreciate it.”
I looked down at the small bouquet of white lilies he had placed on the table, the petals still fresh and delicate. I nodded, noting his quiet demeanor, and quickly set about arranging a vase for the flowers.
By the time I returned with the vase, two plates of food had arrived from the kitchen. I placed them on the table, steam curling up from the dishes. But the elderly man wasn’t looking at the food. His gaze was fixed on the empty seat across from him, his fingers lightly tracing the edge of his napkin.
Minutes passed, and still, no one came. The rain continued to fall, its soft tapping on the windows the only sound filling the space. I could see him looking at the empty chair, waiting.
I hesitated, then decided to approach him once more. I set a cup of tea down in front of him, smiling softly. “On the house. Would you like anything else?”
For the first time that evening, he lifted his eyes to meet mine. There was a sadness there, hidden behind years of experience.
“It’s my birthday,” he said, his voice low and hoarse. “Would you sit and have a cup of tea with me?”
Without a second thought, I nodded. I hurried to the counter, grabbed the last slice of chocolate cake, and lit a candle. I walked back to the table, setting it down in front of him.
“A birthday isn’t a birthday without cake,” I said, a small smile playing at my lips. “Make a wish.”
He looked at the flickering candle for a moment, then sighed. “I don’t think wishes work the way we want them to.”
“Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try,” I replied, my voice light. He chuckled softly, a hint of nostalgia in his eyes, and leaned forward to blow out the candle. The little flame flickered and died.
“See? Not so bad,” I said, clapping softly.
He stared at the extinguished candle, his smile fading. There was something heavy in his expression now.
“My wish… it already didn’t come true,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
Curious, I asked gently, “What do you mean?”
He hesitated, his fingers still tracing patterns on the table. After a long pause, he spoke again.
“A little over a year ago, right here in this café, I met the love of my life,” he began, a faint smile returning. “Her name was Susan. She was always late.”
I raised an eyebrow. “She made you wait on purpose?”
Tom let out a soft chuckle, his eyes glazing over with the memory. “Oh no, it was never on purpose. She had a way of showing up just a little bit late, but always with a story. Maybe she misplaced her wallet, or there was a dog that ran away. There was always something.”
I smiled, picturing this woman who brought life to even the simplest moments. “She sounds wonderful.”
“She was,” he said, his smile growing fainter. “We were older when we met, no fairytales, no illusions. But we had something steady. And for once, steady felt good.”
He fell silent for a moment, his eyes lost in thought. Then, he continued, his voice quiet, almost pained.
“A year ago, I invited her here for my birthday. I planned to ask her something special.” He paused, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a small velvet box, holding it in his hand like a precious memory. “I was going to propose.”
I gasped softly. “You were?”
“Yes,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I sat here, ordered dinner for two, and waited. But… she never came.”
I didn’t know what to say. I could see the pain in his eyes, the weight of a year spent waiting.
“What happened?” I asked, my heart aching for him.
“I don’t know,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “I called, I searched, I wrote. But it was as if she had vanished. One moment, she was mine, and the next… she was gone.”
I sat beside him, my hand resting on the table. “And now?”
“Now, I came here, ordered dinner for two,” he said, his voice hollow. “Because I couldn’t stop hoping that maybe… maybe she’d come back.”
“Do you have a picture of her?” I asked softly.
He nodded and pulled out a worn photograph from his wallet. There she was—Susan. Her eyes sparkled with life, and there was a warmth to her smile that felt almost tangible.
“I’ll find her,” I said, without thinking. “Give me a few days. Come back on Monday for coffee.”
He looked at me, slightly confused. “And why would I do that?”
“Because this story isn’t over yet,” I said firmly, smiling softly.
He looked at me for a long moment before nodding. “All right. Monday.”
The following days were a whirlwind of searching. I scoured old newspapers, checked online forums, and even contacted local hospitals, convinced that someone who had vanished without a trace had to have left some mark. But nothing came up. There were no missing person reports or even a mention of a woman named Susan.
Then, the idea struck me—hospitals. If something had happened to her that night, if she had been hurt or taken ill, she would have been admitted.
I reached out to my friend Sarah, a nurse at a local hospital, who reluctantly agreed to help me search for any records.
Half an hour later, we found it. A record. Susan Wilson. Admitted the night she disappeared, with severe head trauma and memory loss. There was no other information, but there was a phone number—an emergency contact. I dialed it.
A woman’s voice answered. “Hello?”
“I’m looking for Susan Wilson,” I said, my voice trembling. “A year ago, she didn’t show up for a date with her… her fiancé. I think she might have been admitted to the hospital.”
There was silence on the other end, a long pause before the woman spoke again.
“She’s my mother,” she said. “But… I don’t know if she’s the woman you’re looking for anymore.”
“Why?”
“She lost everything that night,” the woman said quietly. “Her memory. Her past. Even me, for a while. But there’s one thing she never forgets. A place. A name.”
I closed my eyes, my heart pounding in my chest. “What name?”
“Tom.”
A gasp escaped me. “It’s her. It’s Susan. She’s been waiting.”
“Yes,” the woman said, her voice strained. “But she doesn’t want him to see her like this.”
“I’m bringing him to her,” I said, my resolve firm. “Monday, at the café. Noon. Please, bring her.”
The following Monday, Tom arrived as promised, his suit impeccably pressed and his shoes polished. His eyes, though tired, held a glimmer of hope.
I led him to the window, where Susan sat in a wheelchair. She didn’t seem to notice us at first, her hands folded in her lap.
“Susan,” Tom murmured.
Her eyes flickered toward him, and for a moment, there was nothing. Then, slowly, a smile appeared on her face. Her voice was barely a whisper. “Tom…”
Tom’s breath hitched, and he knelt in front of her, taking her hands in his. “I thought I’d lost you forever,” he whispered.
“I never forgot you,” Susan said, tears filling her eyes.
Tom’s hands trembled as he reached into his pocket and pulled out the velvet box. He opened it, revealing the ring he had waited a year to give her.
“Marry me, Susan,” he whispered. “Let me take care of you. Let me love you for the rest of our days.”
Susan’s face softened, her eyes shining with love. “Yes… yes, Tom.”
The moment felt like magic, a love that had endured despite everything. And as Tom gently wheeled her out of the café, they were heading to buy her favorite lilies—together at last.