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She almost walked on. Instead, she sat on the curb beside him. The concrete was cold. A pigeon landed on her knee. She flinched, then didn’t. For ten minutes, they said nothing. Then he handed her the last crust. She tore it into pieces, and when a bird pecked her palm—sharp, living, real—the knot inside her chest gave a single, creaking crack.

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“Do you ever feel like you’re late for your own life?” he asked. She almost walked on

She returned to the old man on Clanbrassil Street. He was still there, on his crate, though now the pigeons were fewer. His name, she learned, was Mr. Singh. He had come from Punjab forty years ago, had run a corner shop, buried a wife, outlived two sons. A pigeon landed on her knee