I didn’t think anyone noticed me. Not anymore. Not since Alice passed. She was the light in my every morning — the one who made bitter coffee sweet and rainy days worth stepping into. For thirty-eight years, we started our day right here, at this bakery on 3rd Avenue. A croissant to share. Half for her, half for me. Always warm, always buttered.
When she died, I kept coming. Sat on the same bench. Ordered the same pastry. But it was just me now — and half a croissant I never touched.
People walked by. The world moved on. I didn’t expect it to stop. I just hoped it would slow down enough to let me breathe.
Then one Tuesday — rainy, like the day she left — a little girl tugged at her mother’s coat and pointed at me. She broke from her hand and walked right up with a crumpled tulip in her palm. ‘You look like you need a flower,’ she said.
I didn’t know what to say. Her mother apologized profusely, embarrassed. But I smiled. For the first time in weeks, I really smiled. ‘Thank you,’ I told her. ‘It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in a long time.’
The next morning, there was a note on my bench. No name. Just: “She says you looked happier yesterday.” And underneath, a drawing — a man with a flower and a croissant.
It’s been six months now. I don’t leave the other half untouched anymore. I always bring two — one for me, and one for whoever sits beside me next.
Because sometimes, kindness doesn’t come from old friends. It comes from tiny hands with too-big hearts… and a flower that made the world slow down, just enough.”