The Man at the Intersection
Although I lived in a hilly city, I enjoyed my seemingly routine commute. The crisp morning air was alive with energy as the populace emerged from side streets to funnel into the city center. The evening heat settled in to make the climb back feel slower as everyone scattered back to their nooks. The city itself seemed to breathe—invigorating life rushing in, languished tension released out—following a familiar, daily rhythm.
Despite everyone's various ambitions and backstories, most shared a common, unspoken pattern. Each day, we followed a similar path, sitting in the same seats, and spending hours quietly chasing the approval of those believed to hold something we don’t. The routine was predictable, almost mechanical—steady, silent, and largely uneventful.
One day, an older man caught my attention at a small intersection I passed each morning. He leaned against a chess table, wood cane in hand, black beanie on head, and holding a blue cup of coffee. At first glance, he seemed like one of the city's overlooked—those quietly sidelined by a world that had moved on. Ironically, though they seemed different from the integrated, they too spent hours chasing after something held by those with more. But this man wasn’t seeking anything.
After a few days of passing him, we finally acknowledged each other with a simple wave. Awkward and eager, he shook his hand up and down like shooing away smoke. I waved back without much thought. From then on, rain or shine, good day or bad, we exchanged the same simple wave every morning. It became a small ritual—something quiet but meaningful, something to be grateful for. In my mind, we became a sort of silent, strange friends.
Months later, I noticed others waving to him too. A brief embarrassment hit me as I realized the ritual wasn’t ours but was his. Humbled at first, I slowly grew fond of the idea that this enigmatic figure, in his own quiet way, had become a small icon to me and the local commuters at that modest intersection.
Half a year since our first wave, my knowledge of who he was and why he sat there remained the exact same. Though the answer was within reach, I continued to preserve the riddle and never spoke to him.
As my time in the city neared its end, I realized I would never see him again. As I toyed with the romantic notion of leaving it a mystery, one morning I decided not to cling to the fantasy for its own sake.
Despite a year of acknowledgements, he was surprised and slightly unwelcoming when I approached him. After an awkward greeting, I asked everything but his answer was simple: he just enjoyed the fresh air and greeting people. Expecting something more insightful, I was caught off guard. I thanked him for his presence and continued my commute.
At first, I was slightly disappointed by the lack of profoundness I felt his symbolic presence deserved. But over time I’ve come to realize that it was my own search for purpose in a dull routine that projected the unrealistic narrative onto him. By breaking the illusion, he affirmed the need for meaning, though left me still undecided on how to continue fulfilling it.