I turned and saw a middle-aged man sitting at a table in the corner of the shop—the same one I’d sat at a week earlier, texting her number. He looked at me calmly, not angry. Just with a strange seriousness.
“Sit down,” he said, not raising his voice.
I sat down. I don’t know why. I just sat down.

He put a photo on the table. An old black-and-white one. Two young men in front of a building. One looked remarkably like me. The other like her.
“The one on the left,” he said, “is your grandfather. And the one on the right is my father. They were friends. Very close friends. Before everything fell apart.”

I remained silent.
“She doesn’t know,” he added quietly. “And maybe it’s better she doesn’t. But you should know before you get too far.”
He took the photo, stood up, and left the shop without a word.

I was left alone at the table. She stood at the counter, looking at me quizzically, with the same smile she always had.
And in that moment, I realized that what I thought was the beginning might be the end of something that began even before we were born.
I paid for the water. I left.
But her number is still in my phone. And I still don’t know if I’ll call.