Chapter 3 — Exact Change
957 Words
Clara hated mornings in winter.
Not because of the cold — she had learned to dress for that. Thermal tights, wool socks, layered sweaters under her McDonald’s uniform. No, what she hated was the silence. Swiss mornings were too quiet. Too orderly. Too precise.
Back home, mornings were noisy. Roosters. Tricycles. Radios playing love songs. Mama calling out instructions. Someone always arguing about rice.
Here, the only sound was the distant hum of trams and the crunch of boots on snow.
She checked her phone before leaving the apartment.
Three missed calls.
Seven w******p messages.
Her chest tightened.
Paolo: Ate, ubos na antibiotics ko.
Mama: Clara, tumawag si Ate Lina. Kulang daw sa pambayad ng supplier.
Andrea: Ate sorry last minute, may thesis printing fee pala…
Clara closed her eyes.
Not now.
She shoved the phone into her pocket and stepped into the cold.
McDonald’s Bahnhofstrasse was already busy when she arrived. Tourists in puffy jackets. Office workers in clean coats. Students with earbuds and coffee cravings.
“Clara!” her manager called. “Front counter today.”
She forced a smile. “Got it.”
The rhythm began.
“Grüezi.”
“Next please.”
“Card or cash?”
“Exact change, please.”
Switzerland loved exact change.
No rounding off. No “okay na yan.” No utang. No later.
Everything balanced.
Unlike her life.
It happened around 10:17 AM.
She noticed because the digital clock above the espresso machine always glitched at 10:17 — the seconds flickered.
He stepped forward in line.
Tall. Dark wool coat. No flashy brands. Clean haircut. Early thirties, maybe. Not trying too hard. Not trying at all.
He looked like someone who didn’t rush.
“Grüezi,” Clara said automatically.
He hesitated for half a second — like he was deciding which language to use.
“Good morning,” he replied instead. His voice was calm. Neutral accent. European, but not strong.
“What can I get for you?”
“Small coffee. Black.”
Of course. Swiss people loved simple things.
“That will be CHF 4.90.”
He handed her a 5-franc coin.
Exact.
She blinked.
Most customers paid with card.
She gave him ten centimes back. Their fingers didn’t touch — just close enough for her to notice his hands were slightly rough, like he worked with something physical.
Not office-soft.
“Danke,” he said.
She nodded, already turning to the next customer.
But then —
“Busy morning?” he asked lightly.
It wasn’t flirtatious. It wasn’t intrusive.
Just… human.
Clara glanced up, surprised.
“It’s always busy,” she said.
He gave a small half-smile. “I suppose that’s good for business.”
“For business,” she repeated.
For survival, she didn’t say.
A woman behind him cleared her throat impatiently.
He stepped aside immediately. No drama. No lingering.
Just gone.
Clara moved on.
But for some reason, she noticed that he didn’t sit near the window like most people.
He chose the corner table. Back against the wall. Facing the room.
Observant.
Her break came at 11:30.
She checked her phone again.
Andrea: Ate please today daw deadline.
Clara opened her banking app.
CHF 400 already planned. But printing fee? Another CHF 60.
Her jaw tightened.
She transferred it anyway.
Balance shrinking.
Again.
When she looked up, she realized he was still there.
Not staring.
Just… reading something on his phone. Occasionally glancing up — not at her specifically — but scanning the room like he was used to assessing spaces.
Maybe he worked in security. Or construction. Or something practical.
He didn’t look rich.
But he didn’t look worried either.
That difference unsettled her.
What must it feel like — to buy a coffee without calculating how many antibiotics that equals?
Her coworker nudged her.
“You know him?”
“Who?”
“The guy in the corner. He comes sometimes. Not every day.”
Clara shrugged. “No.”
“He always pays cash.”
“So?”
“In Switzerland?” Her coworker raised an eyebrow. “That’s rare.”
Clara looked again.
He was finishing his coffee.
Then he stood, threw the cup away properly — recycling separated, of course — and headed for the door.
As he passed the counter, he paused briefly.
“Have a good shift,” he said.
Simple.
Polite.
Normal.
Clara blinked. “You too.”
The door closed behind him. Cold air slipped in.
And that was it.
No sparks. No dramatic music. No slow motion.
Just a small interruption in routine.
That night, Clara sat on her bed again with her laptop open.
New numbers.
New transfers.
Kuya Miguel’s lab tests increased. CHF 75 more next week.
Ate Lina asking for additional capital.
Paolo needing follow-up check-up.
Total projected remittance next month:
CHF 3,200.
Her salary:
CHF 3,800.
Rent. Insurance. Transport.
She stared at the math.
Her life was exact change too.
Nothing extra.
Her phone buzzed again.
Mama calling.
Clara inhaled before answering.
“Yes, Ma.”
“Clara, kamusta ka?” (Clara, how are you?)
“I’m okay.”
Pause.
“Anak… pagod ka ba?” (My child...are you tired?)
She swallowed.
A simple question.
Too dangerous.
“I’m fine,” she said softly.
Across the city, somewhere in a quiet apartment with clean white walls, the man from the café was also sitting alone at a small dining table. His phone buzzed too.
He ignored it.
Different lives.
Same silence.
That night, Clara dreamed of something strange.
She was at the counter again.
But this time, when someone handed her money —
It wasn’t exact.
It was more.
And she didn’t know what to do with the extra.
She woke up before she could decide.
- Writer
