Tom’s voice was steady, but there was a distant sadness in his eyes.

“Susan and I used to come here every year on my birthday,” he said, glancing at the lilies. “She loved these flowers. Said they reminded her of the first bouquet I ever gave her.”

I smiled. “That’s sweet.”

Tom nodded, a wistful look crossing his face. “She always made my birthday special. No matter what. Even when times were tough, she’d find a way.”

I took a bite of cake, letting the silence settle for a moment. “How long were you together?”

“Fifty-four years.” His lips quirked upward. “Married for fifty. Met when we were teenagers. She worked at the bakery down the street. I used to buy bread every morning just to see her.”

I chuckled. “Sounds like a good excuse.”

He laughed, a deep, warm sound that made me think he hadn’t laughed like that in a while. “It was. One day, she called me out on it. Said, ‘Tom, you don’t even like bread that much, do you?’”

I leaned in. “And what did you say?”

“I told her, ‘Not really. But I sure do like you.’”

My heart softened. “And that was it?”

He nodded. “We were inseparable after that. She had this way of making everything feel lighter, even when life got hard.”

I glanced at the empty chair, then back at Tom. “Is that why you ordered dinner for two?”

He sighed. “Yes. It’s been three years since she passed, but on my birthday, I still set a place for her. It’s my way of keeping her close.”

My throat tightened. “She must have been wonderful.”

“She was. More than I can put into words.” He took another sip of tea, his hands trembling slightly. “You know, people always say time heals. But I think love doesn’t work that way. You don’t just stop loving someone because they’re gone.”

I nodded, feeling the weight of his words. “No, you don’t.”

We sat in comfortable silence, the rain tapping softly against the window. After a moment, I pushed the cake toward him. “She wouldn’t want you to skip dessert on your birthday.”

He hesitated, then picked up his fork. “You’re right. She had a sweet tooth, you know. Always made sure we had cake on special days.”

“Then it’s only right to keep the tradition going.”

Tom took a bite, closing his eyes for a moment as if savoring a distant memory. When he opened them, there was warmth there—less sadness, more gratitude.

“Thank you, Emma,” he said quietly. “For sitting with me. For listening.”

I smiled. “No one should spend their birthday alone.”

He looked at the empty seat once more, then back at me. “You know, Susan always said kindness has a way of coming back to you.”

I held his gaze. “I believe that.”

Tom finished his cake, and as the café lights dimmed for closing, he stood. “I should get going.”

I walked him to the door, watching as he pulled his coat tighter against the chill. Before stepping out, he turned back. “Would you like to join me for dinner next year?”

I smiled. “I’d love to.”

As the bell jingled behind him, I watched him disappear into the rain, a quiet warmth settling in my chest. Some people leave behind echoes that never fade.

And maybe, just maybe, kindness does have a way of coming back.

If you were in Emma’s place, would you have sat with Tom? Why or why not?