Every morning, he sat in the same place by the window, where the light was kind enough to fall softly on the pages. The world moved past the glass—people rushing, phones ringing, laughter echoing—but none of it reached him. In his hands was a small book, worn at the edges, the kind you keep when everything else has already been given away. He read slowly, not because the words were difficult, but because each sentence stirred something heavy inside him.
The book reminded him of a life that once felt full. Of a house that used to echo with voices, of dinners where plates were passed and arguments ended in laughter. His wife loved to read too. She used to sit across from him, feet tucked under her chair, reading aloud when his eyes were tired. When she was gone, the house became unbearably quiet. He kept her books, though. They felt like proof that those years were real.
Now, reading was how he survived the long hours of being unseen. His children were busy—busy raising families, busy making a living, busy living a life that no longer included daily calls or Sunday visits. He understood. At least, he told himself he did. Still, there were days when he wished someone would ask him what he was reading, or if he was warm enough, or if he needed anything at all.
The umbrella rested between his knees, unused, like a symbol of preparation for a storm no one warned him about—old age. He had planned for many things in life: work, bills, responsibility. He had never planned for loneliness. As he turned another page, his eyes paused, not on the words, but on a memory rising uninvited. He blinked, swallowed hard, and kept reading, because closing the book meant facing the silence again.
And so he stayed there, holding the pages as if they might hold him back in return—hoping that somewhere between the lines, someone would remember him, someone would notice, someone would come sit beside him before the story ended…