Every night, just before closing, the cats arrived.

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Always three of them.

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The gray one first.

Then the black one.

Then the orange cat that limped slightly when it walked.

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The old man never called for them.

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He simply prepared three small pieces of food and waited quietly beside the counter.

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At first, people thought it was coincidence.

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But years passed.

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Rain came.

Snow came.

New owners opened stores across the street.

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Still, the cats returned every night.

And so did he.

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Most customers barely noticed him anymore.

The city had moved on long ago.

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But the cats had not.

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They waited patiently for him every evening as if keeping a promise no one else remembered.

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Sometimes he spoke to them softly while handing them their food.

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Not because he believed they understood.

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But because they were the only ones who still came back.

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And on the nights when the streets felt especially cold, he would smile quietly to himself and whisper:

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“My regulars are here again.”