There was once a man with a donut in one hand, a yellow coffee stained cup in the other, and a Vince Flynn novel tucked under his arm. He had silver hair and a beard to match. The moment he walked through the cafe you just knew his presence was one of regularity and familiarity: he was more than a customer, he was a spectacle-wearing man who like routines, tucked in shirts, and the classic taste of coffee with five sugars.
His name was Tim and he cried when the cafe burned to the ground.
He still came, though. Everyday. He'd sit on the blue bench across the way and watch them rebuild that tiny cafe, a donut in one hand, a yellow coffee stained cup in the other, and a Vince Flynn novel tucked under his arm.
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