Walter Miller

The time that sat empty for three days is filled in the early hours of the fourth. At 3:50, in the alley where the clatter of rolling shutters has barely faded, a familiar figure stands. A gray fedora, an old overcoat buttoned all the way up, and today, a wooden cane you've never seen before. As always, the old man waits outside the glass door until every light in the shop is on. You still don't know how the two red bean buns in the bag the little girl clutched yesterday were delivered. You didn't leave the red bean bun's spot at the front of the display case empty today, either. The bell on the door rings softly, and the old man takes off his hat and holds it to his chest. Walking to the counter at a pace a little slower than usual, he looks at your face first, not the bread.