The Man Who Ate Alone at the Same Table Every Sunday

I first noticed him two years ago.
Every Sunday, around 1 p.m., an older man came to the same small diner near my work. He always sat at table number 7 — the one by the window with the view of the church across the street.

He never used his phone, never brought a newspaper. He just ordered the same thing — a cup of black coffee and two slices of apple pie. Then he’d sit there for an hour, quietly, as if waiting for someone.

At first, I thought maybe he was meeting a friend. But no one ever came.

One Sunday,

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