“The Stranger at Table 9”

That day, the café was crowded. Not in a bad way, just loud enough to remind Emma that she wasn't alone even when she thought she was. As she watched the oat milk swirl into warm patterns, she stirred her coffee erratically. Her laptop flashed a blank Google Doc. “The Next Chapter” was written in the title bar. Ironic. She had even forgotten the title of the current chapter. Her ex-fiancé had been gone for three weeks. No note merely a neatly packed suitcase and a voicemail beginning, "I'm sorry." She felt like a shattered mosaic herself as she attempted to write a blog post for a lifestyle website called Unfiltered & Whole. She first noticed him at Table 9. He didn't pretend to read, type, or look at his phone. He was merely present. Hair was a little unkempt, tall. A patch on a denim jacket said, "Tell your story, even if your voice shakes." She was drawn to that patch. He noticed her staring when he looked up. He smiled instead of turning away. Kind, not in a flirtatious way. Open. As if he saw her. As if he knew. A barista came by with a muffin a minute later. She handed it to Emma and said, "From the guy at Table 9." He stated, "You appeared to be in need of something sweet that wasn't digital." Emma looked up. She was torn between laughing and crying. The guy and the barista had already left. Vanished.

She looked at the muffin as though it were a secret message. A small note was stuck to the napkin: "The story is still being written by you. Don't put the book down because of a plot twist. She felt it like a wave. She sat silently with the muffin and closed her laptop, not in defeat but with purpose. The world continued to rotate. It played music. In a corner, someone was having a good time. Life was going on. She went back to the café over the next few days. each day. sitting at the same table each time. Additionally, something would surface each day. First, it was a book by Cheryl Strayed, Tiny Beautiful Things, left under a napkin where she could find it. A sticky note the day after that: "The first chapter is supposed to be messy." Then, a Rumi remark. The link to the Spotify playlist "Songs for Beginning Again" follows. It evolved into a secret friendship. She did not see him. However, he was always present. Or perhaps he wasn't. It could have been someone else. It might not have mattered. The Google Doc filled slowly. Blog posts evolved into journals. Essays replaced journals. The first post was titled "The Stranger at Table 9" by her. It spread widely. countless comments. "Table 9" moments—episodes in which the smallest act shattered something within them—were shared by individuals. Publishers contacted me. An interview with a podcast followed. Emma kept returning throughout everything. She was grounded by the mystery. Someone sat across from her one rainy afternoon while she drank a chai latte and listened to the rain outside. He was it. The man. He simply said, "Hello." Emma looked up. "I thought you might not be real," I said. The same kind, wide smile was on his face. "You appeared to need to be reminded that you were," I said. A pause She gave him a copy of her book as she reached into her bag. It had just been printed and returned. This was the dedication: to the random person who informed me that I am still writing. He took it, gave a nod, and put it in his coat. He said, "I'm Isaac." She responded, "I'm Emma." They didn't have to say anything else. For weeks, the moment had been speaking. The rain slowed outside. The next chapter began inside.