One Last Cup of Coffee

One Last Cup of Coffee

by KHAN

The bell above the café door jingled softly as Arthur stepped inside, like it always did, like it always had. He nodded at the barista behind the counter—a young man with a pierced nose and kind eyes—before making his way to the corner table by the window. The seat across from him, as always, was left empty.

Arthur had been coming to Marigold Café every morning for the past 16 years, ever since the day they closed her casket.

He placed his worn cap on the table and lowered himself into the chair with a soft grunt. The café smelled of cinnamon and fresh espresso, sounds of clinking mugs and gentle jazz filling the air. Outside, October leaves swirled like dancers caught in a gust of memory.

"Morning, Arthur," the barista said as he placed down a cup. “Black coffee. No sugar.”

“Still haven’t forgotten,” Arthur said with a grateful smile.

"Not in this lifetime."

Arthur wrapped his weathered hands around the cup, letting the warmth seep into his fingers. He stared at the chair across from him. He always ordered just one coffee. She never liked it black—said it tasted like burnt toast and sorrow. She took hers sweet and creamy, with two sugars and a drop of vanilla. But Arthur couldn’t bring himself to order it anymore. It would be like pretending she was still here.

They used to sit in this very spot—her sketching on a napkin, him rambling about the latest nonsense in the newspaper. The kind of quiet companionship that grew from years of burnt dinners, bedtime stories, and forgiveness.

Today was colder than usual. He felt it in his knees, in the brittle chill that clung to the bones. Maybe he was finally feeling his age—82. Or maybe it was the date. October 13th. Their anniversary.

He took a slow sip, letting the bitterness settle on his tongue. That’s when he noticed it.

A folded napkin sitting across from him.

He blinked. He hadn’t seen anyone leave it. It was neatly placed at the center of the empty side of the table. He reached for it with a shaky hand.

There, in faded blue ink, was a note written in delicate, looping cursive—the kind no one writes anymore.

“If you're reading this, it means I found a way to reach you.”

Arthur’s heart paused.

“I always said I’d find a way. Even if I had to haunt you. But don’t worry—I’m not a ghost. Just a whisper from the past.”

The handwriting. He knew it. Every curve, every curl. It was hers.

“You’ve been so faithful, my love. Sitting here all these years. Talking to me in your head. Laughing to yourself like a madman. I see you. I’ve felt you.”

His hands trembled as he turned the napkin over.

“But it’s time. One last cup of coffee. Then go live again. You don’t have to let go of me. Just... let yourself breathe. Find joy. Find someone who makes you smile again. Not like I did—no one could—but something different. Something new.”

He swallowed hard, a knot tightening in his throat.

“I’ll always be here. In the smell of your coffee, in the corner of your smile, in the way you grumble about how everything’s too expensive now.”

There was a smudge of ink at the bottom, like a tear had fallen before the last line was written.

“Happy anniversary, Art. Go live. For me. Love always, Elsie.”

Arthur pressed the napkin to his chest and closed his eyes. For a moment, the café faded away. He could see her—red lipstick, floral scarf, eyes that sparkled like a punchline just waiting to be told.

When he opened his eyes again, he called out to the barista.

“Can I get another coffee?” he asked. “Make it sweet. Two sugars. With a drop of vanilla.”

The barista blinked, then smiled softly. “Coming right up.”

Arthur turned to the empty chair, the napkin still clutched in his hand.

“One last cup,” he whispered, “then I’ll go.”

And for the first time in 16 years, he meant it.