Three months passed before I gathered the courage to approach him.
That day was bright and windless. He was in his usual place when I walked up, my chest tight with anger and confusion.
He didn’t startle. He didn’t even look defensive. He just rose slowly to his feet. Up close, he was bigger than I expected — tall, broad, the kind of man who looked like he’d lived a hard life. But his eyes were red, wet with tears.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I just came to say thank you.”
“Thank you?” I asked. “For what?”
He glanced at the grave, his voice trembling. “For saving my daughter’s life.”
