Sun Flower

Harry sat at his desk — a wooden table pressed close to the window of the old, sagging house.

Morning entered the room as a thin strand of light, stretching across the tabletop, sliding past the edge of a sheet of paper, brushing the rim of a glass, then stopping. It went no farther. Harry’s face lay outside that strip of light, as though the sun had learned, over time, to avoid that place.

His body leaned forward, stretched along the desk. A slow breath slipped from his chest, carrying with it the faintest movement of fingers resting loosely on the wood. His gaze remained fixed beyond the window, on the tree before the house, swaying just enough to register. The early wind was mild — only enough to stir the leaves and draw out a few scattered birdcalls that surfaced, then dissolved. Inside, an old fan turned slowly, its steady creak failing to break the silence, only sharpening it.

The house carried the scent of aged pine — no longer sharp, only a thin residue lingering in the air. Harry leaned back in his chair, letting his weight sink. On the wall, framed photographs hung close together, dark wooden frames slightly crooked, untouched. Time within those images seemed to have stopped there, releasing a muted warmth. Medals hung neatly, reflecting no light. On the shelf, books stood in careful rows, their spines dulled by years. In the corner, painting tools lay still, arranged with care, as though keeping order was the last remaining task.

Harry stood. His footsteps were so light they seemed not to touch the house at all.

In the kitchen, he took moka and robusta beans — half of each — and poured them into the grinder. When the aroma rose, he paused, lifting the blend to his nose. The scent met his breath and spread slowly through his chest, warm and familiar, like something that had once belonged to mornings. He placed the grounds into the filter, fitted it into the machine, and poured exactly one shot of water — neither rushed nor delayed.

Coffee dripped out, one drop at a time. In the glass cup, the dark liquid caught what little light there was; a thin veil of steam rose slowly, filling the room with a cautious kind of life. Harry poured the coffee into a cup already holding cool water. An Americano took shape — plain, unadorned. He took a packet of packaged bread and carried everything out to the small table in the garden.

The garden was unchanged. Rose bushes planted in straight, orderly lines. The soil cleared, dry leaves gathered early. The scent of earth mingled with coffee, spreading through the air without competing. Harry sat and set the cup before him. The chair beside him was empty. He looked at it longer than necessary.

The chair was nothing unusual — old, simple, placed exactly where it belonged. Yet the silence around it was denser than the rest of the yard. Harry smiled faintly, as if out of a habit learned long ago, then returned to his coffee. He took a sip. Morning continued its slow, even passage, leaving the chair there — still empty, still silent, still present as something no longer needing a name.

Time passed — not measured by clocks, but by the length of Harry’s presence in the garden chair. He leaned back, letting his body sink into the space. The breeze brushed his long, unkempt hair, loosening a few strands that fell to cover his closed eyes. His fingers tapped a slow rhythm on the armrest. A familiar volume rested lightly on his chest: Understanding the Heart. No page was turned. The day drifted on.

When the sun withdrew and darkness began to fill the garden, Harry finally stood. He changed clothes, moving gently, as if afraid to disturb the afternoon that had just left. The path from home to work crossed three streets — neither short nor long. On either side stood familiar houses, yellow light spilling from windows. The city was not yet loud, not yet asleep — only waiting.

At the bar, Harry greeted his coworkers with a nod. He put on soft music, just enough to fill the gaps. Behind the counter, he wiped each glass, each corner, returning everything to its proper place.

Selena approached, tilting her head as she studied him.

“You’re like this again today,” she said, half joking. “You look terribly dull.”

Harry did not answer. He continued working, slow and steady.

The night deepened. The bar grew warm, dense. Laughter spilled from the tables. Harry poured whiskey and coke for customers. The sharp scent of alcohol rose, recalling the pinewood air of the old house. Guests leaned close in conversation; servers laughed behind the counter. Harry remained there — part of the bar, yet never quite belonging to it.

His shift ended at three in the morning. The city was nearly empty. Harry walked the familiar streets home. He did not turn on the lights right away. In the garden, he tidied and trimmed the plants under the thinning darkness — not quite morning, but no longer night.

He wrote a few short lines in his journal. Then he brewed another cup of coffee. By the time warmth spread through his hands, the sky had lightened slightly.

Gray arrived then.

No knock. He stood at the edge of the garden, setting down bags of fertilizer and packets of seeds. It was not an hour for delivering seeds, but Gray did so anyway, as if following a habit that required no explanation.

Harry glanced over.

“Leave them there.”

Nothing more was said. Harry lay back in the familiar chair, letting what little shade remained cover him. Gray stood still for a moment. Early light touched the chair beside Harry — the empty one — making it stand out more clearly than the rest of the garden.

Gray looked at the chair.Then he left, quietly.

Harry did not watch him go.He lay there, unmoving, until the light spread just a little farther.

End Of Chapter 1