He'd always been there. I just never noticed him properly.
An old man with a brown cap, shoes that had seen too many winters, and hands that shook when he tossed breadcrumbs.
The pigeons trusted him more than people did. And he seemed to like it that way.
That morning, as I sat in silence, he shuffled over slowly. Not toward me, not away just… nearby. Close enough to speak, far enough not to intrude.
"You're here early again," he said without looking. His voice was soft — the kind that people grow into over years of quiet.
I nodded. He didn't ask why. Instead, he pointed with his chin toward the bench beside mine.
"She used to sit there. That girl." My chest tightened. I said nothing.
"She didn't speak to many," he went on. "Just sat, sketched, sometimes cried." I turned, surprised. "She… drew?"
He smiled faintly. "Didn't you know? I Thought you might. You two were like matching shadows." I shook my head. We'd never spoken. Never even nodded hello.
"She'd sit with her sketchbook open," the old man said, throwing crumbs. "But sometimes she just stared at the pages. Like waiting for the right line to appear."
Silence.
Then, quietly, he added, "She stopped coming after the rain. That big storm."
I remembered. It had lasted all night. Thunder like war drums. The next morning, the park was soaked and empty.
"I hope she's alright," I said softly. The old man gave a slow nod. "Sometimes," he said, "people leave before they're found. But that doesn't mean they didn't want to be."
Then he looked at me. Really looked. "Maybe you reminded her of something too quiet to say out loud." He tipped his cap, fed the last of the crumbs, and walked away.
I sat there long after he left, watching the bench that once wasn't just a bench.
And I wondered —if we had spoken, would anything have been different? Or was silence the only language we ever truly shared?