The Receipt With No Purchase

He stared at it for a while, sitting on the edge of his bed with the soft morning light spilling through the blinds.
It didn’t make sense. The address on the receipt led to a street across town — one he hadn’t visited in years.

Curiosity tugged at him all day. He tried to brush it off, went about work as usual, but his thoughts kept circling back to that small piece of paper. Around lunchtime, he finally gave in and decided to go.

The café was easy to find. It was tucked between two bookstores, the kind of place that didn’t stand out unless you were looking for it. The sign above the door read “Marigold & Co.” in faded lettering.

When he stepped inside, the scent of fresh pastries hit him — cinnamon, sugar, and something faintly citrus. There were only a few people there, each lost in their own moment.

He approached the counter, holding the receipt out to the barista.
“I think this might be yours,” he said, almost embarrassed.
The barista smiled softly, glancing down at it. “No,” she said. “It’s yours.”

He blinked. “But I haven’t been here before.”

She tilted her head, studying him for a second before turning toward the register. Without asking, she made a small cappuccino and placed it in front of him. The receipt printer hummed.
She tore it off and handed it over.

Same date. Same total. Same handwriting on the back: “Don’t forget today.”

He sat down at a table near the window, the cup warming his hands. He didn’t know what it meant — maybe nothing, maybe everything.
But as he looked outside, watching people pass, something quiet shifted inside him.

Maybe the note wasn’t a message from anyone else. Maybe it was from himself — a reminder left somewhere between time and chance, urging him to be present, to notice, to remember that even ordinary days can mean something.

He sipped his coffee slowly, folded the new receipt, and tucked it into his pocket beside the old one. This time, he smiled.