The market was bustling around me, but I felt removed, like watching a scene from a distance.
The man in the suit was still kneeling, his sobs quieting into a steady stream of tears.
People were staring, murmuring.
Some of my regulars shot me concerned glances, unsure of what to make of the spectacle.
I wanted to ask him why he was here, what he wanted from me, but the words wouldn’t come.
It was as if the weight of his presence had stolen my voice.
Finally, he spoke again, his voice a hoarse whisper.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his hands clutching the pavement.
That was it.
Just an apology, hanging in the air between us.
