That corner café

The kindly owner of the small corner coffee shop cared most about people. Oh, he cared about the coffee of course – he tried to take pride in his work – but it was the people and conversation he put more work into brewing just right each day.
On the corner of that secluded block, the little café soon became loved by the people who visited, and the shop became steadily more popular. A constant drip of neighbors and patrons came through the open doors in the warmest months of the year, usually leaving with a cold brew that smiled back at them, and a wave from the mustachioed owner.
People loved the little café, and the owner loved the people. Four years after opening, four years of pouring his heart into his latté pours, he closed the shop suddenly without a word of warning.

People wondered what had happened to the little shop. Nearly every day for months another someone walked up to find the doors unexpectedly locked and the neighborhood a little chillier than they had remembered.

Finally, the kindly owner opened a new shop, in a similar little neighborhood, on the opposite side of town. A soup shop. But now he stayed in the back, and cooked the soups – rarely seeing the customers himself. Every once in a while, someone would come in who used to love the corner coffee shop, and would catch him walking through, back to the kitchen.

“Hey! I know you!” said a customer named Stephanie one day. “Why did you close your sweet little coffee shop?”
The owner, who had just walked out of the kitchen hugging a large pot of lobster bisque, looked up mournfully.

And…
What?
I don’t know how to finish this.
He closed the shop because he got into an accident and was rendered mute so he couldn’t talk to the people who came into his shop anymore?
He actually hated coffee all along?
People never really liked him, they just liked the coffee and the shop?

I’m not sure…