The Regular Who Never Speaks
一言も話さない常連
The old man, who came every morning at exactly seven o'clock, never said a word.
He would enter quietly, choose the same loaf, and leave a small coin.
For years Martha had wondered about him, yet she had never dared to ask.
His coat, which had clearly seen better days, was always brushed and .
He would pause at the window, where the morning light fell across the bread.
Sometimes he would smile , as if remembering something he could not share.
Martha, who spoke easily with most of her customers, felt shy around him.
She would prepare his loaf early, wrapping it before he even reached the door.
The other regulars, most of whom knew everyone, knew nothing about this man.
Some called him lonely; others, less kind, called him strange.
But Martha noticed the care with which he counted out his coins.
She noticed, too, the with which he closed the door behind him.
On rainy days, when few people came, he would still appear at seven.
He would shake the water from his hat, nod once, and take his bread.
Martha began to look forward to these silent visits more than she admitted.
In a life that had grown quiet, his was a small, comfort.
She would imagine the life he might have led, inventing stories to fill the silence.
Perhaps he had been a teacher, she thought, or a sailor, or a musician.
Whoever he was, he treated her bread as though it were something .
One morning she placed a second roll in his bag, refusing his extra coin.
He looked up, , his tired eyes suddenly bright with surprise.
For the first time, his lips parted as if he meant to speak.
But the words, whatever they were, did not come.
He simply pressed her hand, warm and trembling, and turned away.
Martha stood at the counter, moved by a kindness she could not name.
She did not know that she had only a short time left to learn his story.