Todd
Todd
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He doesn’t say much.
Just pours drinks. Wipes glasses. Watches.
But when Dana slips into the bar one night with shadows under her eyes and a silence that says more than words ever could—he listens.
He doesn’t offer advice. Doesn’t touch her arm. Just says, “You don’t have to go back.”
And when she looks at him, something cracks. Not everything. But enough.
Because sometimes, kindness doesn’t have to be loud to change the ending.
He saw it in her posture before she even opened her mouth—the way Dana carried silence like weight, like armor.
She never asked for anything. Not a drink. Not help. Not even kindness.
But she’d sit at the corner of the bar, fingers curled around an empty glass like she was afraid to let go of anything.
Todd wasn’t a hero. He knew that.
But when he placed a glass of water in front of her and said nothing, she nodded like it meant everything.
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