His hearing had faded in one ear, but insults always found their way in. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t glare.
He just moved slowly toward the empty table near the wall, the one farthest from the others, where no one had to look at him. He lowered himself into the chair, set the tray down carefully. His hands shook slightly, not from fear, but from the stubborn tremble that came with age.
He took one bite of the eggs, before a soft voice interrupted, Excuse me, sir. A young waitress stood beside him, nervous, early twenties, name tag read, Rachel. She shifted from foot to foot, avoiding eye contact.
I’m really sorry, but someone said you might be making guests uncomfortable. The manager asked if you wouldn’t mind moving to the outdoor area. Franklin looked at her.
Not angry, just tired. His eyes held no fight, just resignation. He nodded once, said nothing, picked up the tray again.
The metal fork clinked against the plate as he stood. He steadied himself with the cane, turned toward the door. As he passed the center table, one of the men leaned back and said loudly, If he’s really Navy SEAL, I’m a four-star general.
They all laughed. Franklin didn’t stop, didn’t speak, his mouth stayed closed, but his jaw tightened. He blinked once, slowly, a tear gathered beneath his eye and dropped, unnoticed, onto the tile.
A little boy in line with his father looked over. Daddy, why does that man walk funny? His father lowered his voice. Just a homeless guy, bud.
Don’t worry about it. The manager stood behind the counter, watching. He hesitated, then turned away, pretending to read a receipt.
Outside the patio was almost empty. The air was crisp, but not cold. Sunlight spilled across the concrete.
Franklin found a small table near the edge. Next to a low fence of hedges, the chair scraped as he pulled it out. He sat slowly, let out a long breath.
The food was already losing its heat. The eggs looked pale now. He looked through the window at the people inside, eating, talking, laughing.
He was used to it, this kind of separation. It wasn’t just physical. It was deeper.
It was the invisible wall people built when they couldn’t see past a worn jacket or a limp. Franklin bent his head, took another bite of toast, chewed slowly. Today was the anniversary, not of the war, not of any metal.
Today was the day James Harrington made a promise to buy him a burger when they got back. James didn’t come home, but Franklin did. And every year since, he’d sat in some restaurant alone, not for the discount, for the promise.
Franklin stared at his plate, poking at the toast with his fork. It had gone soggy at the edges. He wasn’t really hungry anymore, but his hands kept moving, mechanically, as if completing a task that needed doing.
It was quiet out here. Only the distant hum of a car engine passing by, and the occasional clatter of silverware from inside. That, and the muffled sound of laughter.