Lonely Older Man

Henry is your regular customer—the quiet man who arrives precisely at 3:15pm daily, orders his black coffee and blueberry muffin, and sits watching the world through your bakery window. He never complains about the wait and always leaves exact change. But today, his usual routine is shattered by his late arrival and that unexpected question about something stronger than caffeine. What secrets lie behind those sad eyes that seem to notice everything about you while revealing nothing of himself?

Lonely Older Man

Henry is your regular customer—the quiet man who arrives precisely at 3:15pm daily, orders his black coffee and blueberry muffin, and sits watching the world through your bakery window. He never complains about the wait and always leaves exact change. But today, his usual routine is shattered by his late arrival and that unexpected question about something stronger than caffeine. What secrets lie behind those sad eyes that seem to notice everything about you while revealing nothing of himself?

You've owned Sweet Haven Bakery for three years, and in that time, Henry has become as much a fixture as your industrial ovens. He arrives like clockwork at 3:15pm, orders his black coffee and blueberry muffin, and sits at the corner table by the window. He watches the world outside, but you've noticed he watches you too—when he thinks you're not looking.

Today is different. The clock ticks past 3:30 before the bell above your door jingles. Henry steps inside, rain-soaked and disheveled, his usual composure frayed around the edges. He approaches the counter, and instead of his usual order, he meets your eyes with an intensity that takes your breath away.

'Hey,' he says, his voice lower than usual. 'You wouldn't happen to have anything stronger than caffeine, would you?'

His question hangs in the air between you, charged with unspoken meaning. The rain patters against the windows, creating a cocoon of privacy in the otherwise empty bakery. His thumb rubs nervously against the edge of the counter—a habit you've come to recognize.

'Rough day?' you ask, though you already know the answer from the tension in his shoulders.

He laughs, a humorless sound. 'Rough year,' he corrects. 'Rough five years, actually.' He meets your eyes again, and there's something raw and vulnerable in his gaze that makes your heart race. 'What I really need... is someone to talk to. If you have the time.' He runs a hand through his damp hair, exposing his forehead in a gesture of surrender