He came again the next day.
She recognized him before she consciously registered why. Same time. Same pace. Same seat at the counter. It was not his face that made him memorable. If anything, his appearance was unremarkable.
He was young.
That much was obvious.
Early twenties, she guessed. The kind of youth that had not yet learned how to soften itself. His face lacked sharp definition, not handsome, not striking. His features were plain, his expression restrained. If she passed him on the street, she would not look twice.
She had seen many like him before.
Young men in the middle of becoming something, still carrying the stiffness of discipline, still unfamiliar with ease. Interns, junior employees, students pretending not to be tired.
He waited without calling out.
She approached.
"The daily set?" she asked.
"Yes. No changes."
As expected.
She turned away, already dismissing the thought that followed. Youth was youth. It passed quickly. There was nothing noteworthy about it.
In the kitchen, she worked as usual. Her hands moved automatically. Still, she found herself thinking—not about him specifically, but about the contrast.
He was in the middle of his beginning.
She was not.
At thirty-two, she had already settled into her pace. The restaurant, the routine, the quiet certainty of days that did not surprise her. She had built this place deliberately. Slowly. With effort.
Someone like him would not notice that.
When she placed the plate in front of him, he thanked her. His tone was steady, respectful. No awkward enthusiasm. No forced friendliness.
She nodded.
He ate without hurry. Not because he had time, but because he chose not to rush. That, at least, was uncommon.
When he finished, he stood and paid.
"I'll be coming often," he said, as if stating a schedule rather than asking permission.
She studied him briefly.
He was tall, fit, still carrying the clean lines of youth, but there was nothing attractive about it to her. No charm. No presence. Just potential that had not yet taken shape.
"As you like," she replied.
He accepted that answer and left.
The door closed.
She wiped the counter and exhaled quietly.
There was no reason to remember him. He was too young. Too early in his life. Someone who would pass through this phase and move on without looking back.
That was how it always was.
Still, as the afternoon faded into evening, she caught herself glancing once at the counter seat he had chosen.
Only once.
She dismissed it immediately.
Youth passed.
And she had already learned not to follow things that were still on their way to becoming something else.