The Second Cup

The Second Cup

A Harry Miles

Small Mercies Story

By

Ed Benjamin

Harry filled the container from the kitchen sink and set it next to the coffee maker. He didn’t rush. Making a cup of coffee had never been something you rushed. Not if you wanted it to mean anything.

He had a plain coffee maker. One of those things

The house was quiet. Katie had left early for an appointment. The morning light came in low through the window, catching the edge of the counter and the dust that never quite settled. Harry spooned grounds into the filter. Dark roast. Strong. Weak coffee didn’t help anyone.

While the water heated, he stood still and listened. The hum of the refrigerator. A bird somewhere outside. No sirens. No phones ringing. A good start to the day.

The kettle whistled. Harry poured slowly, watching the grounds bloom, the scent rising and filling the room. When it was done, he poured one mug, black, and left the rest in the glass beaker.

He didn’t drink it yet.

The call came ten minutes later.

It wasn’t a case. Luke made that clear. “Not official,” he said. “Just… something I thought you might handle better than I would.”

Harry leaned against the counter, the coffee cooling in his hand.

“Go on.”

“There’s an old woman out on the east side. Widow. Lives alone. She’s been calling the station every morning this week. Same thing every time. Says her husband didn’t come home.”

Harry waited.

“Her husband died six years ago,” Luke said. “Natural causes. I’ve checked.”

“So why now?” Harry asked.

Luke exhaled. “That’s what I don’t know.”

Harry looked down at the coffee. Still untouched.

“I’ll go talk to her,” he said.

Mrs. Calder’s house sat at the end of a short gravel drive. The yard was neat. Too neat. Nothing out of place. Nothing left undone.

She answered the door on the second knock.

Small woman. Late seventies. Hair pinned back. Eyes sharp but tired.

“You’re early,” she said.

“I came when I could,” Harry replied.

She studied him for a moment, then stepped aside. “He used to like visitors early. Said it made the day feel longer.”

Inside, the house smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and old books. The furniture was worn but clean. A lifetime of care, maintained out of habit.

They sat at the kitchen table. Mrs. Calder folded her hands.

“He didn’t come home,” she said again. “I waited.”

“Where would he have been?” Harry asked.

“Work,” she said. “Always work.”

Harry glanced around. Photos on the wall. A man in uniform—Air Force blues. Younger. Smiling.

“May I ask his name?” Harry said.

“Thomas,” she replied. “Tom.”

Harry nodded. Asked gently, “Did something change recently?”

She hesitated. Her hands tightened.

“I found his mug,” she said. “In the cabinet. The one he always used. It was clean.”

Harry waited.

“I don’t remember washing it.”

That was the thing with grief, Harry had learned. It didn’t move in straight lines. It circled back. Changed shape. Found small excuses to return.

“Did you move anything else?” he asked gently.

She shook her head. “Just the mug.”

Harry stood and walked to the cabinet. He opened it slowly.

There were four mugs inside. All different. One was blue, chipped at the rim.

“This one?” he asked.

She nodded.

Harry took it out and set it on the counter. “Would you mind if I made us some coffee?”

She looked surprised. Then relieved. “No. He always said coffee made things clearer.”

Harry filled the kettle mwith water. There was a jar of instant coffee on the counter.

As the water heated, he asked questions. About Tom. About the Air Force. About where they’d lived, the bases where they were stationed.

She answered willingly, her voice trembling at first, thn steadying as she talked.

“He used to come home late,” she said. “Not because he wanted to. Because someone else needed him. There was something left undone he didn’t want to leave for the next shift. Sometimes the Air Force would have new requirements. They needed more people to stay on. Then he would stay to make certain the new people did things right.”

Harry noded. Understood.

The kettle whistled. Harry opened a drawer and found a tablespoon. Spooned tablespoons of coffee into the cups. Poured the water, letting the coffee bloom. Stirred the mixture thororghly.

When it was ready, he poured two cups. One for himself. One for her.

He slid the blue mug across the table.

Mrs. Calder stared at it for a long moment. Reverent. Sighed. Then she wrapped her hands around it.

She sipped slowly, letting g the coffee slid down her throat.

“I kept waiting,” she said quietly. “Every morning. I thought maybe I’d missed something. That if I stayed ready, he’d come back.”

Harry took a sip of his coffee. It was hot. Bitter. Right. Just the way he thought Tom would like it.

“He did come back,” Harry said. “Just not in ways you expected.”

She looked up at him.

“In habits,” he continued. “In routines. In the things you still do. You do them because he mattered.”

Her eyes filled, but she didn’t cry.

“I’m not losing my mind?” she said.

“No,” Harry replied. “You’re remembering.”

They sat in silence for a while, the coffee cooling between them.

When Harry stood to leave, Mrs. Calder walked him to the door.

“Will he stop being late?” she asked.

Harry paused. “Eventually.”

She nodded, accepting that.

Harry drove home slowly.

Back in his kitchen, the house felt quieter than before. He rinsed his mug and set it in the sink. The glass coffee maker was empty now.

He filled the top with coffee and a small bit of egg shell.

He made a fresh pot.

While the water was heating, he sent a text.

“Handled.”

A thumbs up emoji followed.

When the coffee 6666666666was ready, Harry poured one cup and set the other aside.

He sat down at the table and took the first sip.

The day moved on.

Harry moved the second cup and left it there, warm and waiting, just in case.

The End