The Return of the Forgotten

My mornings aren’t special at all. Same alarm. Same coffee. Same walk to work.

The city’s half-asleep when I leave, and honestly… so am I. Every day,

I see him. Same spot. Same look. I don’t know his name — never asked.

But I always drop a few coins into his cup. He never says much. Just that small

nod. Somehow, it’s part of my morning now — like brushing my teeth.

I work in a shop. The kind people pass without noticing. I ring up gum, chips,

cigarettes. Watch the clock. Go home. Repeat. Routine keeps me

sane. Or at least… it used to. That day, he wasn’t there.