I sat down at a table in the corner and ordered a coffee. That was the first time I saw her. She was young, maybe in her early twenties, with her hair tied in a messy ponytail, and the warmest smile I had seen in years. She moved easily and gracefully between the tables, taking orders with a skill that belied experience, but her eyes showed no sign of the weariness and annoyance I often saw in the wait staff. There was a light in them.
“Good afternoon! What would you like?” she asked me, her voice soft as velvet.
I ordered a coffee and a piece of apple strudel, which smelled divine. She brought it to me with a smile and wished me bon appetit. And in that small, insignificant gesture, I felt something I had forgotten – human warmth.
I started going to Sweet Nostalgia every day. It became my ritual, my salvation island. I always sat at the same table and she always served me. I learned her name – Lilia. We started talking. At first, it was banal things – about the weather, about coffee. Gradually, our conversations became longer. I asked her about the things that excited her. She was studying at the university, something related to literature. She dreamed of becoming a writer. She spoke with such passion about books, about characters, about the power of words.
In her stories I found the life I had lost. She told me about exams, funny stories with colleagues, the difficulties of combining study with work. She never complained. She found something positive in everything, some bright side. I started leaving her generous tips, but not in that arrogant way of a rich man who buys favor. I did it discreetly because I knew she needed it. I could feel that behind her smile was a tiredness and care that was not typical for her age.
She became my unofficial daughter. I looked forward to the afternoons at the café, to hear her voice, to see her smile. She was the only reason my day had any meaning. I told her about my youth, but only the good things. I told her about the dreams I had before money swallowed them. She listened to me with genuine interest, asked questions, and made me feel important again. Not like the former owner of Imperia, but just like Assen, the guy who drinks coffee in the corner and loves apple strudel.
One day, a few months later, I went to the café as usual. But Lilia was not there. In her place was another girl, frowning and absent-minded. I asked him about Lilia. He shrugged. “She left. I don’t know why.”
My heart sank. I felt the same way I did when my wife left. The feeling of abandonment, of emptiness, came back in full force. I waited. A day passed, two, a week. Lilia didn’t show up. The cafe lost its magic. It became just another place with mediocre coffee.
I couldn’t accept it. I couldn’t let the only light in my life go out like that, without explanation. I decided I had to find her. I had to know she was okay. I was a businessman. I had spent my whole life solving problems and finding information. I activated old contacts. A former employee of mine, who now had a detective agency, owed me a favor. I gave him her name and the name of the cafe. Two days later he called me with the address.
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