On a cold, rainy night in March, the usually bustling streets were now nearly empty. Through the dim light, I caught sight of an old, frail woman huddled on the sidewalk. Her graying hair and deep, contemplative eyes seemed to hold a lifetime of stories. She looked like a street artist—indifferent to the world, sitting there with her basket of lemons and a few treasured belongings: a pack of cigarettes and an old lighter.
The rain grew heavier. I wondered why she didn’t pack up and go home. She simply smiled and said she had to watch over her best friend’s livelihood. I glanced around but saw nothing of value. Then she pointed to an old air pump tied to an electric pole—so rusty that no one would bother stealing it. But to street artists like her, it was a priceless possession.
Where is your friend? I asked without thinking. She smiled and said he had gone to buy steamed buns. There was a famous shop three streets away, and she loved their buns, so he went every night to get them for her. They weren’t husband and wife, nor were they relatives or from the same hometown. They were just two people who had met on a late night and had since become companions on this journey.
Before long, her friend returned, his shoulders soaked from the rain, holding a bag of freshly steamed buns. He had bought only two—one for her and one for himself. But when he saw me, he didn’t hesitate to break one in half and hand me a piece. The warm bun was steaming in the cold air, and inside, an intact egg lay nestled—a small yet complete gesture of kindness.
Amidst the sound of falling rain, he shared his life story. He had once been a soldier. When peace was restored, his family was torn apart, his home was lost, and he wandered alone, making a living by repairing tires. Half his life had passed, inflating countless tires so others could continue their journeys, yet he had never found his own family. Now, with his health declining, he stayed within the familiar corners of this street, sharing his days with her as a fellow traveler of the night.
Bidding farewell to them, I stepped back into the cold rain, heading toward my small but warm rented room. The March rain continued to fall, but it could never extinguish the curling smoke from her cigarette—nor could it extinguish the friendship of two souls who shared the same fate.