The Regular Who Vanished

Mr. Ford had come to the bakery every morning for many years.

He always ordered the same warm roll and a small black coffee.

Arthur Wells knew his face better than he knew his own.

One grey Monday, however, Mr. Ford did not appear.

Wells waited by the window, where the morning light usually found the old teacher.

By noon the chair near the door had stayed empty.

Wells told himself that his friend had simply overslept.

But the next day came, and still no one rang the little bell above the door.

He remembered the last time Mr. Ford had visited.

The old man had looked pale, and his hands had trembled around the cup.

He had spoken very little, which was not like him at all.

Wells had noticed it then, yet he had said nothing.

Now he wished that he had asked one simple question.

On the third morning, Wells closed the shop early.

He wrapped a fresh roll in paper and walked to Mr. Ford's house.

He knocked, and for a long moment nobody answered.

When the door finally opened, Wells hardly knew the man before him.

Mr. Ford had grown thin, and the house behind him was cold and dark.

"I caught a fever," the old teacher said quietly, "and I had no reason to get up."

Wells stepped inside, where dust had settled on every shelf.

He remembered the winter when he too had stopped leaving his own home.

After Marie had died, he had felt the same heavy silence.

So he sat down beside his friend, and he simply stayed.

They talked about small things, the way old friends do.

When evening came, Mr. Ford held Wells's hand at the door.

"There is something you should know," he said, "Marie once told me a little about that promise of yours."

Wells stood very still, for no one had ever spoken those words to him before.