The café was nearly empty.
It always was at this hour. The tables were old, the kind that remembered elbows and spilled tea better than faces. An old man sat by the window, his coat folded neatly on the back of the chair, both hands wrapped around a cup he hadn't touched yet.
Outside, the sky was covered in dark clouds like it's about to rain.
The old man waited for the steam to fade before lifting the cup. His hands shook slightly, the way hands do when they've been alive for too long. He took a small sip, then another. Tea. Plain. The same thing he ordered every time.
A child laughed somewhere outside. The sound slipped through the glass and made the old man look up. For a moment, his eyes followed the noise, searching for the face that made it.
It wasn't the face he was looking for.
He finished the tea, left a few coins on the table without counting them, and stood. Before walking away, he rested his fingers on the edge of the table—just for a second—then let go.
The walk to the cemetery took longer than it used to. The ground was uneven, and he leaned heavily on his cane, but he didn't stop. He never did.
The cemetery was quiet in the way only cemeteries are. Not peaceful. Just empty.
He moved past the stones without reading the names. He knew where he was going. He stopped in front of one grave and slowly lowered himself down.
No photograph.
No words carved to explain anything.
Just a name.
He placed a bouquet at the base of the stone. White flowers. He adjusted them until they looked right.
"You'd complain about these," he said softly.
"Say they're dull."
His voice sounded older here.
He sat for a while. Long enough for his legs to ache. Long enough for the wind to move the grass.
"You know," he said, "you did better than most."
He swallowed.
"You got out. You lived with them. You ate their food, learned their jokes, stood in their lines."
A pause.
"You even smiled like them."
A faint smile touched his face, then disappeared.
"I told you to keep going," he said. "To stay invisible."
His hand tightened around the cane.
"You tried."
The silence didn't argue.
"I don't want to see you again," he said at last.
The words came out rough, almost unkind.
But his eyes told a different story.
He stood slowly and turned away without looking back.
A few steps ahead, another grave stood nearby. The same dates. The same silence.
He didn't stop there.
Some losses never learned how to be shared.
The old man left the cemetery alone.