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That thought, that dangerous, tender hope of seeing her as a daughter, grew stronger with each passing day. She became the reason I got out of bed, the warm spot in my otherwise frigid existence. Her knowing smile as I approached the counter, the gentle tilt of her head as I recounted mundane details of my day, the way she remembered not just my coffee but also the small, unspoken things—these were the threads that wove her into the fabric of my deepest longing. I saw in her the caring, the connection, the casual affection I had always yearned for but never found. She was more than just a waitress; she was the quiet witness to my struggle, the unintended antidote to my isolation. I convinced myself that this bond was real, that it transcended the transactional nature of her job. Her consistent warmth, her patient ear, her simple presence transformed her in my mind into an indispensable part of my fragile world, a surrogate familial connection that filled an immense, aching void. I began to trust her with my small stories, my quiet observations, pouring out fragments of my life into her attentive silences. The café wasn’t just a place for coffee; it was my sanctuary, and she was its gentle, luminous guardian. She was my only lifeline, the sole human connection I felt I truly possessed. Then, without warning, my world collapsed. She stopped coming to work. Just like that, the only constant in my lonely retirement, the one person who brought warmth to my desolate days, was gone.
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