Daniel returned the next day.
Amara noticed him before the bell rang. She always did now, though she pretended otherwise. There was something about the way he paused outside the café—like he needed a moment to prepare himself for the world—that quietly drew her attention.
He stepped in, and the bell chimed softly.
The morning light framed him as he stood there, sleeves rolled up, eyes scanning the room as if he were searching for something he couldn't name. When his gaze met Amara's, something in his expression eased.
"Good morning," she said, the words warmer this time.
"Good morning," he replied, just as softly.
He ordered the same coffee. Black. No sugar.
Amara prepared it with care, noticing details she hadn't the first day—the faint scar on his wrist, the way his fingers flexed as if unused to rest. She slid the cup toward him, and again, their fingers brushed.
This time, neither of them pulled away too quickly.
Daniel chose the window seat again. He sat quietly, watching the street come alive—vendors arranging their goods, buses honking, people hurrying past with lives full of urgency. He didn't rush his drink. He never did.
Amara pretended to busy herself behind the counter, but she found herself glancing his way more often than necessary. There was comfort in his presence, in the way he filled the space without demanding anything from it.
Minutes passed. Then more.
When the café grew busier, Daniel shifted slightly, making room for others without complaint. When a child laughed loudly nearby, he smiled—briefly, but genuinely.
Later, as he stood to leave, Amara found herself speaking before she could stop herself.
"You always sit there," she said, nodding toward the window.
He hesitated. "It helps me think."
"About what?"
He considered the question. "About things I didn't finish. And things I don't want to run from anymore."
Her heart stirred at his honesty.
The days that followed settled into the same gentle rhythm.
Daniel came.
Amara served.
Sometimes they exchanged a few words. Sometimes only smiles. Sometimes nothing at all.
Yet familiarity bloomed in the quiet.
Amara learned that Daniel stirred his coffee three times even though he took it black. That he folded his napkin carefully before leaving. That he always thanked her as if gratitude was something he never took lightly.
One morning, when the café was nearly empty, she finally teased him, "Do you always take your coffee this bitter?"
A corner of his mouth lifted. "Some things don't need sweetness."
She raised an eyebrow and placed a biscuit beside his cup anyway.
Daniel looked at it for a moment, then broke it in half.
"I suppose," he said quietly, "a little doesn't hurt."
Amara smiled to herself as she turned away.
Because without realizing it, they were both learning the same thing—
Silence, when shared, could become a language of its own.