I had seen him before—quiet, hunched, almost invisible.
Every evening around dusk, when the streetlights flickered on and the city softened into that strange mix of exhaustion and calm, he would appear by the dumpsters behind our apartment building. His coat was always the same faded brown, too thin for the season, and his hands trembled slightly as he sorted through bags of trash.
He wasn’t looking for anything specific—just bottles, cans, scraps… anything he could exchange for a few coins.
Someone once told me his pension barely covered rent and a little food. “Barely” felt like a generous word.
Most people pretended not to see him.
