My name is Isabel, and most mornings blur together in a routine that feels unremarkable: coffee, toast, and the same playlist on repeat as I rush to catch the 7:42 a.m. bus downtown.

That Tuesday began no differently. My travel mug burned my fingers through its sleeve, my coat was only half-buttoned, and my mind was already sorting through the mountain of emails waiting for me at the office.

I work as a marketing analyst for a tech company in the city. People assume that means a glamorous life—corner office, fancy lunches, maybe even a company car. The reality? I ride the bus every day because parking costs more than my grocery budget. Honestly, those 20 minutes of quiet before the chaos are worth more than any leather seat. I scroll the news, zone out, and pretend I’m not about to spend eight hours in meetings that could’ve been emails.

The morning air had that sharp bite that makes you wish you’d grabbed a scarf, yet it carried the faint promise of spring. The sky hung in that indecisive gray, unsure whether to rain or just stay gloomy.

That’s when I noticed him.

An elderly man stood near the curb, slightly hunched, holding a small bouquet of daisies wrapped in clear plastic. His coat hung too loosely on his frame, faded from navy to a tired blue-gray. What struck me most were his hands—patting his pockets in a frantic rhythm: front left, front right, back right, jacket pocket. Again and again.

His face tightened with each search, his eyebrows knitting together in panic.

The bus hissed to a stop, and the crowd surged forward. I tapped my card and moved toward the back, gripping a pole. Then the driver’s voice cut through the murmur of passengers.