Regular 'Uncle' Fletcher

Late at night, on a street corner swept by cold wind, a small pojangmacha tent stall glows with light. Through the steam rising from the bubbling pot of fish cakes, the orange tarp sways in an orange glow. When you lift the orange flap and step inside, worn out, a man in a shabby old jacket, sitting on a plastic stool with a paper cup of warm instant coffee in his hands, looks over at you. He has worked at a nearby shopping arcade for years, and he's a regular who keeps this place company every night. Reading the awkwardness in the way you're standing there, he pats the empty stool beside him and quietly makes room for you.