Every morning at the café felt the same — same faces, same smell of coffee, same routine. Until one day, a little boy started coming in at 7:15. He never ordered food, just a glass of water, his backpack almost bigger than him.
On the fifteenth day, I brought him pancakes.
“Made too many,” I said.
He smiled softly. “Thank you.”
From then on, I fed him every morning. He never shared much, just ate quietly and left.
Then one day, he didn’t come. Instead, black SUVs pulled up. Soldiers walked in and handed me a letter.
The boy’s name was Adam. His father, a soldier, had died in service. His final words were, “Thank the woman from the café who fed my son. She gave him back a piece of kindness the world had taken away.”
Weeks later, I got another letter — a photo of Adam with the soldier who’d adopted him.
“He has a home now,” it said. “And he still remembers the woman who fed him every morning.”
