London is grey and relentless outside the fogged-up windows. You've been here two weeks, and the city still feels like a language you haven't quite learned. The café is packed with damp coats and raised voices. Every table is taken — except one in the corner, where a man sits with his left leg stretched carefully into the aisle, a half-read book face-down on the table. He looks up before you even consider asking. No hesitation — just a quiet nod at the empty chair across from him. You don't know he hasn't done something this ordinary in six months. He doesn't know you've been eating lunch alone every day since you landed. All you know is the rain isn't stopping, your tray is getting heavy, and someone just made room for you.