The Cafe on 7th Street

 

بكل سرور، إليك قصة قصيرة بعنوان:

The Café on 7th Street

(المقهى في شارع 7)

Every morning at exactly 7:05 AM, a small café on 7th Street opened its doors to the world. It wasn’t fancy — a few wooden tables, warm lights, and the soft hum of jazz playing from an old speaker near the counter. But to the locals, it was more than just a coffee shop. It was a place where stories began.

Maya, the barista, knew every face and every favorite drink. She had a memory like no other — double espresso for Mr. Carter who always came in before his morning jog, a vanilla latte with oat milk for the quiet girl who read poetry by the window, and a plain black coffee for the man in the gray coat who never said much — just nodded and left after five minutes.

But one cold Thursday morning, something changed.

The man in the gray coat left behind a small, leather-bound notebook. Maya noticed it minutes after he was gone. Curious, she opened it to find page after page of handwritten entries — thoughts, sketches, and… poems. And every poem mentioned “the café on 7th Street.”

She turned the pages with a growing lump in her throat. One entry read:

“I come here to feel alive,

In the silence between sips,

She doesn’t know I exist,

But I see her in every drip.”

Maya read it again. And again.

The next morning, she waited. But he didn’t come.

Nor the next day.

Nor the next.

She placed the notebook on the counter every morning, just in case.

A week later, the doorbell chimed — and there he was, standing awkwardly with a bouquet of wildflowers in one hand.

“I forgot something here,” he said, eyes searching.

Maya smiled and slid the notebook toward him.

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“ You left more than just that,” she whispered