The coffee shop buzzed softly with the hum of machines, the hiss of steam, and the clatter of cups. It was a place designed for human connection: warm wooden tables, chairs close enough to spark conversation, and a chalkboard sign that said, “Life is brewing here!” But no one noticed the sign. Every table was occupied, yet the room felt empty. Heads were bowed, but not in prayer or conversation—just the soft glow of phone screens reflecting off faces. At one table sat an old man, his coffee untouched and cooling. He wore a crisp hat and a woolen scarf, the kind of attire that spoke of a time when outings were events, not just routines. He glanced around, hopeful, his eyes lingering on each person. But no one looked up. At another table, a young woman sat with her laptop open. She had a novel on her screen, half-written, but her phone buzzed every few seconds, stealing her focus. She typed a few words, then scrolled, then sighed. A couple sat in the corner. They weren’t arguing; they weren’t even speaking. Each was lost in their own world, thumbs darting across screens. Occasionally, one of them would chuckle softly at something online, but the laughter was never shared. The old man cleared his throat, a small, polite sound. Nobody noticed. He tried again, louder this time. Still, nothing. With a deep sigh, he reached into his bag and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. It was an old photograph—faded and slightly torn at the edges. In it, a younger version of himself sat in a café much like this one. Around him were friends, smiling and laughing, their faces lit only by joy, not devices. He placed the photo on the table, staring at it for a moment before pushing it toward the edge, as if hoping someone might see it and ask about it. A barista, the only one without a phone in hand, noticed the gesture. She walked over, her smile warm but cautious. “Is this yours?” she asked, holding up the photo. The old man nodded. “It was,” he said softly. “Not anymore.” The barista hesitated, then sat down across from him. She set her phone aside and leaned forward. “Tell me about it.” His eyes lit up for the first time that day. “Well,” he began, his voice trembling but steady, “this was a time when we had no distractions. Just each other. We’d sit for hours, talking, laughing, sharing stories. Everyone was here, not… wherever they are now.” The barista listened, truly listened, as the old man talked. Around them, the glow of screens continued, unnoticed. But for that one small table, connection wasn’t just brewing—it was alive. And for a fleeting moment, the sadness lifted. NOTE: AI Generated