Lost Love Found

P R O L O G U E

H A U N T E D

     Promises are meant to be broken, but promises comfort our tattered souls.  They give hope that even for once, something you desperately expected, carefully planned, or whole-heartedly longed for will finally happen or stay at it is.

     We live by them; we depend on them. And no matter how we learn to detach from promises, we find ourselves accustomed to hang for more.

      Promises are pain in sweet disguise; the more their sound lightens our ears, the extreme their lies darkens our eyes. For the dismay that they cannot slow the tears that stream.

      Promises always end up broken, but they are never hurt. It's us against them. It's our already broken-hearts breaking over and over again.

      Grand fiddled with his pen, staring at it emptily. His eyes were drowsy like they're halfway about to close due to his monotonous uninterested soul. For those who might notice, they would think he's got nothing more capable of than sitting and staring - just plain bored - but for a man who knows himself best, he struggles with more than what meets the human eye.

     He had his wide back leaned on the cold steel chair and his free hand extended near his cup of espresso. The tepid room that encircled him  brought no effect; all the vintage frames, jazz music, creaky floorboards, and hush voices all came in a harmless smoky air.

He would squint when rays of the blindening sun peaks through the binds of thin curtains and aim on his cheek; nonetheless, he doesn't bustle away. He had been on the same spot in this cafe for as much as 10, 570 seconds within two years, yet as days passed by and gathered into a dump of fallen leaves, his reasons to live died with it. He is not on the verge to end his life; although that doesn't mean he wants to do otherwise.

      “Excuse me,” Grand looked up to the source of the voice. An old woman in a brown coat stood across his table, smiling despite the wrinkles evident on her face. Grand's fingers immobilized as he suspiciously cocked a brow. Of all the customers that fuels this cafe-machinery, she found him fitting to be approached to. This sent him an extreme wave of disbelief. Hardly anyone ever speaks to him without trembling for knowing beforehand what he did.

      The woman took his silent response a hint to pursue. “ I'm sorry for disturbing you, but my husband spilled coffee on his shirt. May I have some of these table napkin? The counter ran out of it. It's rush hour today and I just couldn't approach anyone else." She worriedly explained and wiped the coffee stains on her hand against her coat.

      His studious regard on her laggardly averted to the pack of napkin on the center of his table. He slowly parted his lips to reply but quickly changed his mind. Perhaps it is not a necessity to voice out, so he nodded instead. In return, the woman smiled apologetically. “I'm really sorry about this.”

     He focused back on his pen expecting it's the end of their encounter. However, she right aaay proved him wrong when she hesitated to walk away without leaving a few napkins behind.

       Grand was forced to speak. “Wait, you don't have to. I don't need these.” He picked and reached them to her. “Take these ma'am.”

      She grasped his hand and guided it down. “Son, you would need it.” She gasped, instantly regretting how she sounds. “Oh, don't get me wrong; not that I expect you to spill your drink too.” She shook her head, amused to herself.