The cold November rain beat against the glass of the small café, blurring the city lights into an impressionist painting. Inside, I was just as blurry. In my hand, I held a rejection letter—the third one this month—for a job I had dreamed of. My savings were running out, rent was due, and the feeling of failure weighed on me like a heavy stone on my soul. I felt invisible, just another anonymous face in a city that didn’t care about my broken dreams.

Across from me, at another table, sat an elderly man. His gray hair and the wrinkles around his eyes told of a life fully lived, but his eyes held an unusual gentleness. He was sipping his coffee slowly, his gaze fixed on the world passing by outside. Every so often, our eyes would meet, and he would offer me a slight, non-judgmental smile.

I don’t know why, maybe because I felt at the end of my strength, but when he stood up to leave and passed by my table, I said in a barely audible voice, “Have a good day.”