The morning light filtering through my bedroom window is the same indifferent shade of grey as it has been on every Tuesday for the past three months. I haven’t taken a landscape photograph since Margaret died, and I see only one shade, though I know there are dozens if not hundreds more, especially in the minutes before sunrise. I count the Tuesdays, marking time like a prisoner marks off each day of his sentence on the wall of his cell. Seventy-three days of waking up each morning in an empty house, seventy-three days of brewing coffee for one, seventy-three days of conversations with only the evening news anchors.
The boiling eggs start rattling in the saucepan. I have three and a half minutes to dress. The same khaki trousers, the same blue shirt that Margaret used to dress me in while saying–it brings out the colour in your eyes Tom. Those eyes, dulled by grief and routine, stare back at me from the bathroom mirror. The face seems older than my sixty-eight years, carved with lines from sleepless nights and forgotten laughter. Maybe I should remove all the mirrors so all I see is new and fresh. Shaving will be harder. I’ll think about it. Not now, the eggs are cooked.
The walk to town has become a pilgrimage, proving I still exist in the world beyond the four walls of our modest two-bedroomed cottage. I ghost through the morning, phantom footsteps echoing on the pavement that seem to stretch on forever. Around me, the city pulses with a satisfying rhythm—commuters rushing past, phones pressed to their ears. Mothers pushing strollers while juggling grocery lists, teenagers shuffling to school with their backpacks slung low while their earbuds block out a world they know little of.
Humans are constant travellers, always on the move. Transfixed on the destination, we miss the journey, hardly noticing the hundreds or thousands of other travellers we pass by daily. Until we stop the treadmill or jump off, we may never know another soul.
Is it any wonder depression and loneliness haunt so many young and old alike in a world spinning faster than ever?
A chance encounter is all it may take to change a day, a week, or even a life, if we open ourselves up to the possibilities.
I watch, as I do every day, all the men, women and children on the same road, as actors on a stage. Yet I am always alone, and I doubt they even see me; the fellow travellers who share the sidewalks but not my story. The businesswoman in the sharp navy suit, checks her watch every few steps as her mind races toward her first meeting. The jogger in neon running gear, her breath forming small clouds of steam in the cool air as she deftly avoids the strollers. The elderly woman pulling her two-wheeled wicker shopping cart, pauses at every crosswalk with the careful deliberation of someone who understands time is precious and should be savoured. Each of us plays our part in a gigantic daily production that lacks nuance.
Each face tells a story hidden from the world. Each person carries dreams, fears, heartaches, and joys that remain secreted behind polite nods and averted gazes. We have perfected the art of continental togetherness while remaining an archipelago of islands. Each one of us moves through the days like ships passing in the night, our lights visible but our destinations known only to ourselves.
The irony isn't lost on me. In a world where technology can connect us faster than the speed of light—where we can speak instantly to someone on the other side of the world—communicating with each other seems more elusive than ever. We rush past opportunities, transfixed by screens that promise the earth but deliver only the hollow echo of digital relationships.
The realisation that I have slipped silently into the constant traveller category, one of the herd, is alarming and should be a wake-up call. I can see how Margaret and I rushed toward the perceived good things in life—the next promotion, the next vacation, the next milestone. Always moving, always planning, always focused on some distant horizon that seemed to recede with each step towards it. Why am I only seeing it now she’s gone?
The Brew & Bean coffee shop appeared ahead like an oasis in the desert of routine. The cheerful red lettering above the door had escaped my attention until this morning. It had become my Tuesday destination, the place where I would sit for precisely one hour, nurse a cappuccino, and pretend to write or read while watching the world continue its relentless spin without me.
Through the glass door I saw familiar scenes, small round tables occupied by laptop-wielding students, businesspeople conducting hurried meetings over steaming mugs and iced lattes. In the recess a young couple were sharing what appeared to be either a first date or a last conversation. The morning rush was building, a crescendo of coffee grinding, espresso machines bubbling, and animated chatter that would peak within the next half hour.
Hesitating for a moment as I moved toward the door, I considered turning back, retreating to the safety of my empty house where the silence couldn't mock me with reminders of all the conversations I wasn't having. But Margaret's words echoed in my head – ‘keep on living’ they said–propelling me forward.
The bell above the door announced my arrival with its familiar old world ching-ching, a sound that was as familiar as my Tuesday morning cappuccino. But today felt different. The air seemed charged with possibility, though I had no idea why. Perhaps it was the way the morning light slanted through the front shop’s tinted plate-glass window, casting a golden glow over everything, transforming the ordinary into the magical.
I joined the queue, noting the cast of characters with more interest than usual. The businessman ahead of me was already barking orders into his phone, waving his free arm above his head, oblivious to the loudness of his voice and the other customers. Behind me, two college students discussed their upcoming exams with the intensity that only comes from believing these tests would determine their entire future.
As I waited, my gaze wandered to the barista station where the morning symphony of coffee creation played out. Steam wands hissed, espresso machines gurgled, and somewhere amid it all, a new voice rose above the mechanical sounds—bright, melodic, genuinely warm in a way that made me look up from my study of the art deco floor tiles I had never noticed before.
She couldn't have been more than twenty-five, with black hair cropped in a bob that allowed strands to conceal her brow. But it was her eyes that caught my attention first—black and alive with an energy I had long forgotten. Inquisitive but not prying she took each order as if every customer was someone she had been expecting.
"What can I create for you today?" she asked the businessman who paused, momentarily disarmed by her enthusiasm. When she handed him his drink, she added, "I hope your meeting goes well," with a sincerity that made him smile before catching himself and scurrying away.
I entered the coffee shop with a heavy heart that morning. An hour later I walked out, as light as a feather. Her eyes sparkled like mine hadn’t for years, and an instant connection between an ageing man and a bright young lady barista was made. Her youthful exuberance, friendly manner and engaging personality shone so bright. And she talked as though she had known me for ever, even though the shop was buzzing with customers and the owner was watching.
“So, what can I make for you?” she said grinning.
I had been ordering the same cappuccino every Tuesday for months, but suddenly the routine ‘cappuccino’ answer felt totally inadequate. But the thought was too late as I said,
"I... a cappuccino, please," then added, "with perhaps a touch of cinnamon?"
"Perfect choice," she said, writing a number on the cup with a flourish. "Sometimes we need just a little something extra to make the ordinary extraordinary, don't you think?"
As she went to work, humming softly while she steamed the milk, my curiosity was piqued. She was distinctly Asian and seemed to carry sunlight in her smile. Probably Thai, her English was near perfect. The coffee shop buzzed around me with its usual energy, but somehow, Sunbeam, as I now thought of her, created a small pocket of calm in the chaos, moving with practiced efficiency while never losing a sense of joy in what she was doing.
I made my way to my usual table in the corner, the one tucked away where I could observe without participating, where I could maintain a comfortable distance from others. Was it fate that determined it was always free on Tuesday, or just pure chance? It hadn’t crossed my mind till today when the familiar corner felt somewhat different. The notebook I always brought was still closed, as I found myself watching the dance of human interaction playing out.
Near the window, an elderly couple shared a crossword puzzle, their heads close together over the newspaper, occasionally laughing. At the counter, a mother was teaching her young daughter how to count change, patiently letting the child work through the math while other customers waited with surprising tolerance. Two strangers at neighbouring tables struck up a conversation about the book one was reading, their discussion growing animated as they discovered shared interests.
All around me, people weren’t just connecting, they were communicating—in small ways, perhaps, but meaningful, nonetheless. How had I missed this before? How had I sat in this same corner week after week in isolation, while community flourished outside the self-imposed barriers that isolated me?
After a few minutes Sunbeam stood at my table with my custom-made cappuccino.
I looked up to find she was studying me.
"You're a writer," she said, not a question but a statement of fact.
"How did you know?"
"The way you watch people," she said, settling briefly into the chair next to me, as the steady stream of customers that needed her attention had dissipated to a trickle. "You see stories everywhere, don't you?"
I nodded, surprised by her insight and the confidence to air it.
"I used to. Lately, the stories seem to have... dried up."
"Oh, but they're still there," she said with absolute certainty. "Sometimes you have to look for them a bit more if they are hard to find."
“Have we met before?” I said, seemingly without conscious thought.
“I don’t think so, though it does feel as though we have. But then I’m a fortune-teller.”
“Do you have a name?”
“Of course. Beam is my nickname, given to me by my parents at birth.”
“As in Sunbeam?”
“Yes, Beam can mean Sunbeam, But Saeng Athit is more literal. Why do you ask?”
Before I could respond, she was called back to the coffee station, leaving me open-mouthed and stunned. The cappuccino tasted exactly as I had hoped it would—with just enough cinnamon to remind me that small changes can transform the ordinary into something special. Her insight was remarkable, but then fortune-tellers are renowned for strong observational skills, insight and intuition. So, had I been a believer it would hardly have been a surprise. But it was either astounding or a sheer coincidence that her parents recognised at birth she was a sunbeam. And even more remarkable that I did over twenty years later.
She was right. It felt as though we had met before, and maybe that’s why she didn’t need to ask my name.
I spent the next hour writing profusely—for the first time in months. The words flowed like water finding its way around stones, forming stories about the people around me, the connections I witnessed, the small moments of grace that bloomed in the spaces between hurried lives.
When I finally looked up, I realised the rush had passed, leaving the coffee shop in a peaceful mid-morning lull. I had been so absorbed writing that I had lost track of time, something that hadn't happened since before Margaret's illness, when words were companions rather than strangers.
As I gathered my things to leave, Beam appeared beside my table again, this time carrying a small paper bag.
"A blueberry muffin," she explained, "You look like you need some fuel for your new creation."
"You don't need to—"
"I want to. Sometimes we all need someone to believe in us, even if we're not sure we believe in ourselves."
I stood, ready to thank her for her friendship before I returned to my role as a constant traveller, moving through life almost without touching it. But her expression stopped me—an implied invitation that she knew there was something I wanted to say.
"I lost my wife three months ago," I blurted out. "I've been... drifting, I suppose. Going through the motions of living."
"I'm sorry," she said, as a tear dropped onto her hand. "Grief is its own kind of journey, isn't it? We think we're standing still, but really we're travelling through something greater than we understand."
Her insight was so well articulated, it felt as though my soul had stepped out into the open— like ice on a lake thawing in the sunlight after a long winter.
"You're very wise for someone so young," I said.
She laughed.
"My grandmother told me wisdom isn't about age—it's about paying attention."
As I turned to leave, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around me. And she didn’t let go. I was in no hurry as I felt the warmth and comfort I had been missing for too long—the reminder that I was still present, still part of the human family, still worthy of living and caring.
"Thank you," I whispered in her ear.
"I’ll see you next Tuesday. Come an hour later when it’s quiet. We can talk some more."
It wasn’t a question, so I nodded and said, “I’ll do that.”
Would I continue through life as a constant traveller and distant observer, or was I ready to step forward and communicate with the world again because of a brief encounter that was far beyond coffee and muffins?
I left the Brew & Bean carrying not just a blueberry muffin and a notebook full of new words, but something far more precious—the reminder that though we may be constant travellers, we need not travel alone.
The sidewalk looked the same as it had an hour earlier, filled with the same hurried commuters and distracted pedestrians. But I saw them in a different way. Each face was a story waiting to be discovered, each person a potential friend in waiting. The businessman who had been barking into his phone earlier walked past me and smiled. The mother with the stroller caught my eye and nodded a friendly greeting. The teenager with the earbuds moved aside to let me pass, offering a cheerful "Good morning, sir."
I am sure they had always been there, these small acts of kindness, these opportunities to communicate. But I had been travelling with my eyes closed, focused on my destination—and in recent months, lost in my grief I had missed the journey itself.
How did she know? How did this young woman, no more than a stranger when I entered the Brew & Bean, recognise exactly what I needed? The question followed me home, but I didn’t need to analyse it. Some gifts are meant to be received with gratitude rather than understood with logic.
Any attempt to explain what happened that Tuesday would be futile. But I understood now what I had been missing in my months of isolation. If we are not open to possibilities—if we travel through life with our hearts closed and our eyes fixed only on our own sorrow or ambition or fears–such powerful and fulfilling encounters will pass us by.
The secret is not to stop travelling. We are, as I had written that morning, constant travellers by nature. The secret is to travel with our eyes open, our hearts available, and our spirit ready to recognise the moments when our journeys intersect with another in life changing ways.
Stop for a while. Look and listen with an open heart. And you may be surprised.
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