N. Raghuraman's column: Sometimes, quiet people leave the most profound impression

He would have been 70 years old. That day they came to a simple café. Many people liked the place because it was located in a V shape, from where customers could see two streets simultaneously. They came at 2:30 p.m. and sat there until 4:30 p.m. The owner did not care much about this, because at that time there were few customers. He ordered the cheapest item on the menu – a black coffee – and sat with it for two hours. Then they came every day at the same time; They would place the same order and go at the same time every day. He didn't use the phone, he didn't read a book, he just looked at the passersby. Since they didn't seem to be homeless, the café owner talked to them and learned that his name was Walter and that he had recently lost his wife. One day after a month of regular visits, the owner gave him a piece of cake. Walter said, "I didn't order it. The owner replied, "It's from us." They sat quietly and watched people pass by. One day he said, "I come here for a few voices — for a little warmth, for the feeling of not being alone." The owners got used to them, as they had been visiting regularly for six months. And then one day they didn't come. That day, the owner found that at 2:30 a.m., his eyes were repeatedly moving to the door. The next day they didn't come. Then a week passed and there was no sign of Walter. A month later, an adult woman came to the café. They were looking around, as if searching for something. He asked at the counter, "Are you the owner of this café?" The owner said yes. "My father used to come here — Walter. The owner's heart sank. He said softly, yes, they haven't been here for a while. "He passed away last month," the woman said with mild sadness. These words pierced the café owner deeply, but that was all that came out of his mouth – it was very sad to hear this. Then the woman said with a faint smile, "My father always talked about this place. This was his second living-room. He then took an envelope out of his purse and said, "He left it for you." The owner's hands trembled slightly as he opened it. The envelope contained a handwritten letter. It read: To the kind café owner, you may not realize it, but you have given me more than coffee. My days were very long after my wife left. I didn't want to be a burden on my daughter. I didn't want him to see my loneliness. Your café gave me a reason to keep my life going. That extra cake and your extra humility meant more to me than anything else. Thank you, for letting an old man sit in that corner. -Walter. There was also a small cheque in the envelope. It wasn't a huge amount, but it was more than what Walter had ever spent in that café. His daughter said, "This is for the kindness-fund. They wanted you to use it to help someone who might need a place to sit. Then the café owner had to turn his face to the other side to hide the tears. After the woman left, they walked up to the table—Walter's table. The chair was empty, but the owner decided that they would not let it be empty. They put up a sign there: If you need a warm place to sit, you're welcome here. From that day onwards, sometimes a college student would sit there and study, sometimes a widow would weave there, or someone would sit there quietly. Every time they gave someone a coffee, they would also give a cake named after Walter. The trap is that the most valuable thing we can give someone is not extra food, but the comfort that they are not alone.