Disclaimer- I do not own Animal Crossing.
He was a man of few words, but he had dreams too.
As a young pigeon growing up in the big city, he had dreamed of owning his own café, and so after denying the luxuries of city life and settling down in the humble little town of Aspen, he was only too glad to lend Blathers a hand and run the museum's basement café for the knowledgeable curator of the museum.
He was a man of few words, and he had been born in the city and moved to the suburbs to run a little café.
It was a lonely occupation, however, he soon learned, and he once again yearned for the close familiarity of his pigeon siblings as he wiped away a nonexistent stain on the chipped mug that he held, waiting for the customer that never came.
He was a man of few words, and his coffee never sold.
At night, Brewster often stared up at the ceiling and reflected upon the day's failures, like the empty cash register and the bitter coffee and the disappointed sigh of the owl he owed so much to but could never pay back because he just couldn't.
He was a man of few words, and he was beginning to realize that he was a failure.
On Saturday nights the familiar mournful howl of ragtag musician Totakeke would sound, and Brewster's spirits would lift, and his heart would be lighter if for only a few moments as the laidback artist sang his latest compositions.
He was a man of few words, and he longed for company.
But K.K. Slider had dreams too, and, once again, Brewster was left alone in that gloomy café. And he sighed as he swept the dust from the counter and polished the register 'til the thing shone.
He was a man of few words, and he was lonely.
But one day she came, the girl with blue eyes and blond curls. She came in and plopped down on a stool and said in a tired voice, "You wouldn't happen to have any sugar, would you?" He had nearly dropped the mug he'd been cleaning; she was the first customer he'd had in weeks. She giggled and said, "Sorry if I startled you, but I'm starved. Mind hooking me up with a cuppa joe?"
He was a man of few words, and he was serving his first customer.
She drank the whole mug in a single gulp despite how hot it was and grinned at him. "Thanks, man. I really needed that." And with that, she got up, tossed a few Bells in the cash register, and was beginning to leave when suddenly she turned around and said, "M'name's Catherine, by the way. I'll come see ya again sometime, yeah?" And with a sly wink, she was gone.
He was a man of few words, and he had just met a pretty girl who actually drank her coffee hot.
Catherine was true to her word, and visited nearly every day. She had a lot to say, and often brought her friends and companions from all over town with her. She always ordered coffee, and she always drank it hot. Her friends bought coffee too, but mostly they just came to talk.
He was a man of few words, and that pretty girl had made his customers grow.
Soon Brewster began to set aside a cup of coffee for her. She always arrived just a moment later, anyway. But one day she didn't come. He searched the crowd in his café, but he couldn't find her. When he asked, the villagers would look away. But one rabbit finally told him: "She's gone, bunyip."
He was a man of few words, and he had just lost his greatest friend.
She was dressed in a beautiful white dress, and her eyes were closed, and she could have been mistaken as being simply asleep. But he knew better. And as the villagers came forward, bringing with them chrysanthemums and white roses, he stood, head bowed, in front of her freshly dug grave.
He was a man of few words, and he had put flowers on her tombstone.
And once more he retreated to the solitary company of himself in his cafe. And he mourned over her. The townspeople had stopped coming. He was alone.
He was a man of few words, and he missed her.
And when K.K. Slider's familiar howl echoed through the café, he didn't bother to look up. "Hey, man. What's with the sad face?" Totakeke asked. Brewster just stared at him. And K.K. understood. Gently laying his guitar down, he sat down at the counter. Then he stared deep into Brewster's eyes, looking almost sympathetic for once, and he opened his mouth, as if to speak comforting words. But then his entire face changed. He looked almost angry. "Stop dwelling in the past, man. She's gone. Stop pitying yourself. It's hard for everyone else in this town, too. You weren't the only friend she had, y'know." And casting a scathing glance at him, he hopped off the stool, took his guitar, and left without another word.
He was a man of few words, and a white terrier had taught him sense.
He was there in the café long after everyone else had fallen asleep. He was there, thinking about what the dog had said. And finally, it clicked. Taking a well-chipped mug from the cabinet, he went outside into the night, to the place where she had been buried. He knelt by her grave and brushed away the dirt from her tombstone, traced her name with his wing. And he laid the mug there, amid the flowers and candles left there by others.
He was a man of few words, and he left his most prized possession with her.
And as he rose, gaze sad but determined, he walked away, knowing he would never again visit that spot, only to stop and glance back once to open his beak and say in a voice rusty from disuse, "Thank you."
He was a man of few words, and he was grateful.