Every morning at exactly 8:17, an elderly man walked into the diner where I worked. He always pushed the door open gently, wore the same gray coat no matter the weather, and sat alone in the corner booth nobody else wanted because the sunlight hit it too hard. His order never changed: one egg, dry toast, and black coffee.

Then he would sit there quietly for hours, hands folded as he stared out the window at the passing street. At first, I assumed he was waiting for someone. Eventually, I realized he wasn’t.

He was simply trying not to be alone. As the weeks passed, customers started complaining that he occupied a booth too long without ordering more food. But every time I walked by, he would look up at me with tired eyes and softly say, “Thank you for letting me sit.” That sentence stayed with me.

So instead of asking him to leave, I started bringing him little extras when the diner was slow—an extra piece of bread, a bowl of soup, sometimes dessert. I always pretended it was leftover food so he wouldn’t feel embarrassed. He never expected kindness, which somehow made it harder to watch.