Leo

A man opened a shop on a road with no traffic. He knew it had none; he had walked it three times before he signed. He opened anyway. He had a good door, and a door is a thing that wants to be used.

Every morning: sweep the step, put the light on, set one free line in the window. Every evening: sweep, light off, count the day. Most days the count was himself.

A friend came by once. He looked up the empty road, down it, then back at the shop. “This is where you put it?” he said.

“It is where I am,” the man said.

The friend had no answer for that, so he stayed for tea. He was the first customer. He has not bought anything yet.

The man is not waiting for a crowd. He is waiting for one person who slows down, reads the free line, and wants the rest.

The light is on.