He came again the following Thursday.
The knock reached her before she was ready for it.
Three soft taps.
Evenly spaced.
Unhurried.
She knew, immediately, who it was. That knowledge startled her more than the sound itself. Recognition was not something she usually carried from one day to the next.
She opened the door without checking the clock.
He stood there as before—neat, quiet, careful not to take up more space than necessary. His eyes lifted this time, just briefly, enough to meet hers before drifting away again.
The money was placed on the table the moment he stepped inside.
It always came first.
It always stayed there.
She watched his hands as he withdrew them, as if he needed to make sure he hadn't left anything else behind.
They did not speak.
He moved toward the chair by the wall, the same one he always chose, and sat with a familiarity that felt earned rather than assumed. She remained standing for a moment longer than necessary, listening to the sounds below the window—traffic, footsteps, the faint life of the street.
Eventually, she sat too.
Not close.
But not distant.
"I hope it's alright that I come here," he said at last.
The words weren't rushed. They sounded like something he'd been carrying quietly.
"It is," she replied.
He nodded once, slowly, as if storing the answer somewhere safe.
Silence settled again.
She noticed how different it felt now. Less like waiting. More like resting.
Most people arrived with hunger—visible, immediate. He arrived with something softer, something that didn't know how to demand.
She studied him without trying to hide it.
The careful way he had placed his shoes near the door.
The jacket folded neatly beside him.
The way his hands rested open, palms down, as if signaling he would not reach for anything uninvited.
"You don't come often," she said. It wasn't a question.
He shook his head. "No."
Then, after a pause, "Only here."
The words landed gently, but they stayed where they fell.
She didn't ask what he meant. Questions had consequences, and she had learned how fragile certain arrangements could be.
Instead, she moved toward the small stove.
The kettle's familiar sound filled the room as it warmed.
"Tea?" she offered.
He looked surprised. Then something else—relieved, perhaps.
"Yes," he said. "Thank you."
They drank quietly.
Steam rose between them, softening the edges of the room. For a moment, the space felt less like a place people passed through and more like somewhere they had arrived.
"I don't need much," he said after a while. "I just… need to sit."
She understood that more deeply than she expected.
This room had taught her that people came not only for bodies, but for permission—to pause, to be quiet, to exist without explanation.
She sat on the edge of the bed, leaving space between them.
He did not close it.
Time moved without announcing itself.
When it was nearly over, she stood first. The habit was old, automatic.
He followed, slower than before.
At the door, he hesitated.
"I never asked your name," he said.
She met his eyes.
Then he shook his head gently, almost smiling. "You don't have to tell me."
Something inside her shifted—small, but undeniable.
"That's okay," she said.
He smiled then, just a little. Enough to feel real.
After he left, the room didn't feel emptier.
It felt quieter.
She straightened the chair. Washed the cup. Folded the blanket the way she always did.
But later, lying awake, she realized something had changed.
For the first time, someone had been with her without asking her to disappear.
And without meaning to, she found herself wondering—not what he wanted next time, but what he might be carrying with him when he arrived.