The Stranger at Table Seven

By SHAFI ULHAQ

The first time he came in, I thought nothing of it.

Middle-aged, silver at the temples, a little stiff in his gray blazer. He walked in at 6:55 p.m., gave a polite nod, and asked softly, "Is Table Seven free?"

It was. It usually was.

He ordered a cappuccino and a slice of lemon tart. He didn’t look at his phone, didn’t open a book—just stared out the window, eyes flickering with something like waiting.

When I returned to clear the plate, the cappuccino was only half gone.

He tipped well.

The second week, same time, same question: "Is Table Seven free?"

I smiled, a little surprised. “Of course. Right this way.”

Same order. Same silence. Same half-drunk coffee.

By the third visit, I couldn’t stop wondering.

“Expecting someone?” I asked gently as I placed down his saucer.

He looked up. His eyes were kind, but tired.

“Yes,” he said. “She’s just... running late.”

He never brought a phone. He never checked the time.

Still, every Thursday, he came. 6:55 sharp. Sat at Table Seven.

Week six, I caved to curiosity and asked the host, Mia.

“Know anything about the guy at Seven?”

She shrugged. “Comes every Thursday. Never says much. Leaves a twenty-dollar tip on a ten-dollar order. Creeps me out a little.”

I didn’t agree. There was a gentleness to him, something tragic but not threatening. He seemed like someone who had once loved the world very deeply—and lost something big.

Week eight, the lemon tart was sold out. I apologized.

He didn’t complain. Just nodded. “She always liked lemon.”

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

I kept picturing him, sitting there like a statue of patience, his face always aimed toward the door.

By week ten, I broke.

I poured his cappuccino and walked it over with a lump in my throat.

“Sir,” I began, carefully. “I hope this isn’t too forward, but… is she alright?”

He looked up slowly. This time, his eyes didn’t just look tired—they looked full.

Of something too heavy to carry alone.

He gestured to the seat across from him. “Join me, just for a moment?”

I hesitated, looked around. The restaurant was quiet. Mia gave me a subtle shrug.

I sat.

He reached into his coat and pulled out a folded letter, edges worn from time.

“She was my wife,” he said. “Married thirty-two years.”

I held my breath.

“This was her favorite café. We came every Thursday night. She always sat here. Right there.” He smiled faintly and pointed to the chair I was in. “She’d order the tart and say it reminded her of summer in Tuscany, even though she never went.”

My throat tightened.

“She passed last winter. Ovarian cancer. Quick. Cruel.”

I looked down at the letter. He unfolded it gently and slid it toward me.

A short note in delicate handwriting.

"If I ever go first, promise me this: keep Thursday nights. Order the tart. Pretend I’m across from you. I'll meet you there, in spirit if not in body. Forever, Ellie."

I bit my lip to keep it from trembling.

“I thought it would get easier,” he whispered. “But it’s not about the pain going away. It’s about honoring the love that was real.”

We sat in silence, the clink of distant dishes and the low murmur of other diners fading into a hush that wrapped around us.

He stood, left a twenty as always, and looked at me with gratitude in his gaze.

“Thank you,” he said. “For asking.”

He left before I could say you’re welcome.

The next Thursday, he didn’t come.

Or the next.

Week thirteen, I found a postcard on Table Seven.

No stamp, no address. Just five words scribbled on the back:

“She finally let me go.”

I placed it in my apron pocket.

And served a slice of lemon tart at Table Seven.

Just in case she came.