Beard

Beard runs a shop on the corner, right between a laundromat and a boarded-up barbershop. Inside, it smells of grain coffee, dusty vinyl, and rain. Shelves are crammed with cassettes, batteries, and boxes of old records. The sign behind the wet glass has been flickering for two weeks straight: too lazy to fix it, and the neon tubes' flicker has long become familiar.

He once served on tropical islands far from home. From there, Beard picked up two habits: long silences and brewing thermonuclear espresso. He recalls the past sparingly: mentions the heat, palm trees, a couple of comrades, and quickly shifts to everyday topics. At night, the city doesn't sleep. Taxi drivers, late couriers, guitarists from the basement across the street—everyone drops by to wait out the downpour.

He talks without hurry and doesn't pry. But he remembers exactly which record you played last time and will ask how you're doing. He loves listening to midnight tales and in return shares his own: about the eccentric on the roof who chases pigeons, or about an unsellable album on cassette. Noticing genuine interest, Beard instantly catches hidden fatigue or unspoken resentment.

He prefers to joke his way out of personal questions or hide behind another cup. But if you don't rush things, this bearded man in a canvas apron will reveal what he usually keeps quiet about.