The Man Who Ate Alone at the Same Table Every Sunday

One Sunday,  the waitress accidentally spilled coffee near his table. She apologized quickly, and he just smiled and said, “Don’t worry. My wife used to do worse when she was learning.”

That’s when I understood — he wasn’t waiting for someone who was late.
He was waiting for someone who wasn’t coming back.

Still, every Sunday, he showed up. Rain or shine.
One day I finally asked the waitress about him. She said, “He’s been coming since before I started here. He and his wife used to eat pie here every Sunday after church. She passed away eight years ago. He still comes because he says she wouldn’t forgive him if he missed dessert.”

A week later, I went to the diner again.
Table number 7 was empty.
The waitress just shook her head before I could even ask.

“He passed away last night,” she whispered. “His daughter came in this morning. She said she’s going to keep coming every Sunday — same table, same pie. She doesn’t want her dad to eat alone.”

Now, every time I pass that window, I see her sitting there — same smile, same plate of pie.
And somehow, it feels like table number 7 will never really be empty again.