Shadow at the End of the Road

A man is walking across the street during the streets of this city of lights and noise. The crisp morning air stings his skin, but he’s too busy thinking to care. He wears a heavy coat and carries a briefcase, his face tense and pressed, as if to make it to work.

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An elderly woman is sitting on the asphalt at the end of the street. Her patched and torn coat can’t protect her from the cold; her legs, dressed only in thin cloth, shake in the morning air. Her matted hair and lined face tell a long tale of suffering that no one wants to hear. A little tin sits on the ground in front of her, containing a few coins tossed in by those who cross her path and feel sorry for her.

The old woman, shaking, reaches her hand out as the man nears. “Excuse me, sir, do you know how you can help me?” her voice fading, nearly lost amid the sound of footsteps and the roar of vehicles.

The man looks at her, hesitates, but his step doesn't stop. She thought of reasons that made sense to her not to: that she didn’t have time, didn’t know if her money would actually make a difference, or perhaps that this was too big of a problem for her to tackle alone. She exhaled, hung her head and walked off.

_{Phil Collins ~ Another Day in Paradise
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The old woman withdrew her hand and stared vacantly out at the bustling street. She wasn’t shocked; this was her everyday meal. Some entered the room, and others left, some cast a guilt-ridden glance, others did not even see her. She waited in the same place, not knowing if someone would, not just give her something, but also actually look at her.

The sun sank gradually behind skyscrapers, leaving something with the coldness of the most decisive turn of a night in into the night. The woman was still sitting there, huddled in her flimsy coat. The streetlights were on, lighting up the city that felt like it was waking up again, but to her, the night was a reminder that the world was not hers.

As night deepened, the city fell silent. The vehicles’ pitter-patter was gradually replaced with the howling of a bitter, prickling wind. The old woman stayed still, clutching her body to fend off the cold. All around her life continued, but no one stopped to talk to her, much less ask her whether she was okay.

In the distance, the man who had passed her earlier was already at home. He was resting on the couch on this sofa with tea in his hand. The face of the old woman still haunted her mind, though. She attempted to distract herself with television, but something felt off. Her heart was not at rest, in her heart a voice was heard, calling her to come back.

Across town, the old woman remained awake. Her fatigued eyes gazed up at the sky of stars. Lying in bed at night, she asks herself, “Am I still visible to this world? Or am I simply a ghost, a negative, disappearing in the midst of their make of positive?

Then, as dew fell, the woman’s body shivered more. She knew tonight would be like multiple nights before, unsure if she would see the sun rise. But in the depths of her heart, she still had a little hope. Who someone would stop and see her as a person not just a homeless person.

The restless man finally succumbed. Same heavy coat, he stepped back into the street. The night air was chill, but he walked with purpose. He didn’t know why this should be, but he felt the desire to return to the spot where he had observed the old woman. But when he got there, she was not there.

It was a pang of regret that rose within him. “I mean, maybe it was just too late for him to do a little something that might change somebody’s life.”

The next moment, a young man in a black hoodie stepped forward. “She’s gone,” he said, regarding him sharply.

“Where?” the man asked, confused.

The young man smiled weakly, but not in a reassuring way. “You know, right? You’re not actually the first person who came looking for her. She’s always here, begging for a little attention, but the minute someone finally has the guilt to return to her … she’s gone.”

"What do you mean?" the man said, his tension flaring again.

The man took a step closer, and then pointed to an old wooden sign posted on a streetlamp. He approached and read what was written there:

“Here, on this street corner, a seventy-year-old Sri went out to die from the cold on the night of January 11. Her presence was frequently overlooked. Are you going to dismiss others like her?”

The man’s chest tightened. His hands trembled as he glanced back toward the spot where the woman had sat. Now there was only an old can and some dingy cloth. And through the cold night air, he faintly heard the old woman’s trembling voice:

“Excuse me, sir, would you help me?”

But the voice was but an echo in his own mind.

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