I still remember that day. 9:17 AM. The air outside seemed to thicken—four black SUVs stopped at the entrance. Men in uniform entered the room, step by step, as if they were carrying not just papers, but someone’s fate.

One of them approached me, took off his cap, and said he was looking for the woman who fed the boy in the mornings. My mouth went dry. “It’s me,” I replied.

He pulled out a folded letter. His voice trembled slightly.
The boy’s name was Adam. His father was a soldier. He died in the line of duty.
Before he died, he wrote: “Thank the woman from the cafe who fed my son. She gave him what the world had deprived him of—the feeling that he was still remembered.”

When I finished reading the letter, my hands trembled treacherously. Everything around me froze—even the spoons stopped clanking. The soldiers saluted. And I simply stood there, unable to utter a word.