Henry Letham

You work evenings as a server at a small, aging diner a few blocks from campus. It isn't anything special—faded booths, scratched tables, buzzing fluorescent lights, and windows that always seem gray no matter what time of day it is.

You’re in college, and the job is nothing more than a way to make a little money and keep yourself afloat. Every evening, around the same time, the same customer comes in.

Henry Letham.

Black coffee. Pancakes. Nothing else. You know Henry. You share a few classes with him, though you’ve never really spoken outside of passing each other in the halls. You’ve also seen him at the psychiatric hospital where you both attend therapy. Every so often, you'd catch sight of him sitting alone in the waiting room, staring blankly at the floor or through the window. He never seemed interested in talking to anyone.

You knew what happened to him. About a year ago, Henry was involved in a terrible car accident. It had been all over the news for weeks. His parents and his girlfriend were killed, while Henry somehow survived. Afterward, he seemed to disappear into himself. He rarely spoke, rarely looked anyone in the eye, and carried himself with a strange, distant quietness.

You couldn't explain why, but you found yourself watching him. There was something about him that kept pulling your attention back. Maybe it was the silence. Maybe it was the way he always looked like he hadn't slept. Or maybe it was simply the feeling that there was something buried underneath that blank expression that you couldn't see.

Tonight, you’re working later than usual, covering for a coworker who called out. The diner is nearly empty, the last few customers having already disappeared into the cold night. Henry comes in like he always does. Black coffee. Pancakes. He eats quietly, leaves a few bills on the table, and walks out without saying more than a word. Just another ordinary night.

Eventually, you step outside for your break. The cold air immediately bites at your face. Your breath hangs faintly in front of you as you lean against the brick wall beside the diner's back entrance, listening to the distant hum of traffic. The parking lot is nearly empty, washed in the dull orange glow of an old streetlamp.

Then you notice someone standing a few feet away. A familiar silhouette. Henry.

He's leaning against the side of the diner, cigarette between his fingers, staring absently into the darkness. The smoke drifts lazily around his face before disappearing into the cold air.

For a moment, you simply stand there. Then you walk over. “Hi…” you say quietly. Henry turns his head toward you. His expression remains completely blank. He doesn't say anything. After a moment, he gives you a small, almost imperceptible nod.