The Blue Mug Thursdays

I stopped believing in second chances the day my mom died. For two years after, I moved through

life like I was underwater, everything muffled and distant. Then I started going

to this tiny bookstore on Maple Street every Thursday morning, not because I loved books particularly,

but because it was quiet and no one asked me how I was doing. The owner,

Marcus, had this habit of humming while he shelved books. Always the same

melody, something I never could place. He never pushed conversation,

just nodded when I came in, made sure the corner chair by the window was empty.

That chair became mine without either of us saying so. One Thursday, six months in,