It's been a few days since the dinner party, since the chaos and the confrontation, and I'm still trying to make sense of it all. I don't know if the storm has passed or if it's just waiting to hit me again. All I know is that I needed distance, and space to breathe, and this city has always been good for that. It's vast and indifferent, its relentless pace offering me a kind of anonymity that's hard to find in the shadow of my father's name.
The scent of freshly brewed coffee drifts through the crisp morning air as I stand on the sidewalk outside a charming café. The intensity of the previous several days stands in sharp contrast to this. Around me, the city bustles, with people going about their lives in ways I can't even imagine. The cold air reminds me that life never stops for anyone, so I tighten my coat around my shoulders.
That's when I see her.
...
An older woman moves slowly but deliberately along the pavement, bent over a little. She appears out of place in the packed crowd, as if time has stopped for her while everything else is moving at full pace. I glimpse her silver hair hidden under a scarf, her face wrinkled. Although she has a certain quiet dignity, it is tainted by the way she holds her purse close to her breast while her eyes dart tensely from side to side.
Something about her posture draws me in, and I can't help but notice her.
I move forward mindlessly, crossing the street to get to her. I'm not sure why, but I feel obligated. Perhaps it's the lingering effects of my childhood, the aspect of me that has always been taught to be kind and helpful to others.
"Excuse me, ma'am," I say carefully and gently, "are you alright?"
The woman halts, her body tensing up as if she had been taken by surprise. Her eyes, fatigued but watchful, shift to face me. I see the weight in them, the kind of weight that only comes with growing older and living a life filled with little survival and struggle moments.
"I'm fine," she adds abruptly, stepping back as though to put some distance between us. Her hands shake as she grips her bag more tightly, and her voice falters a little. "Young woman, don't bother yourself. I don't need support.
I move in closer, my eyes growing softer. "I'm merely offering help. Do not be afraid to seek for help if you need anything at all."
She examines me for a bit, looking at my face, and for a brief moment, I wonder whether she will reject me once more, brush me off like strangers do. However, a beat later, she lets out a deep sigh, her shoulders slumping.
She whispers, almost to herself, "I don't like taking charity," but the revelation alone breaks my heart. "I have survived this long without requiring aid from others. I've succeeded."
Softly, "But that doesn't mean you have to keep doing it alone," I answer. "Everyone needs a little assistance sometimes. Even the most capable people."
The woman pauses, and her look softens from one of obstinate refuse to one of perhaps resignation or fatigue. At last, she sighs again, this time more deeply, as though the world were pressing down harder on her shoulders.
"Alright," she says reluctantly, her voice quieter now. "I suppose I could use some help. Just to the corner store. I don't like walking too far these days."
I nod, a sense of relief washing over me. "I'll walk with you."
Thus, we stroll alongside one another across the congested streets. I learn more about her as we go along—how she moves cautiously and slowly, as if every step is a tiny victory. Despite the discomfort and the aging indications, she exudes a certain grace in her demeanor. Even though she moves slowly, she does so with purpose and intention. I understand she's more than a frail elderly woman. Perhaps she is just attempting to get through the remainder of her life with as much dignity as she can muster. She has lived and struggled to survive.
When we get at the corner store, I assist her inside, getting her necessities and ensuring her comfort. I ask if there's anything else I can do when we get back to the sidewalk.
Her face softens in a manner I haven't noticed yet when she looks up at me. "You're nice. "This surprised me," she murmurs. "Most people would just pass me by, like I don't exist."
I give her a little smile in response. "I don't think anyone should be invisible," then. "It's the least I can do."
She is silent for a moment. She just looks at me like she's thinking about something. There is a long pause before she speaks again, this time in a lower but no less resolute tone.
"You know," she starts softly, "you make me think of someone." Someone I've known for a long time." She seems to be engrossed in a recollection as her eyes get aloof. "Alexander, my grandchild. He hasn't gotten married yet. A good boy, smart, and kind. Just… a bit lost, I suppose."
I blink, taken aback by the sudden turn of the conversation. "Your grandson?"
"Yes," she replies, glancing back at me with a sharpened gaze. "Hayes, Alexander. Most likely, you've heard of him. He is as passionate as you are. However, something is lacking. I see it in his guarded, aloof manner of living. I've always wished for him to meet someone who could, in a sense, revive him. I believe I've discovered someone now."
She looks at me once more, her eyes lingering with a mix of expectation and curiosity. "You'd be perfect for him, you know."
I'm taken aback by her sudden insistence, my heart racing in confusion. "I'm not sure I—"
"Please," she interrupts gently, "consider it. You have the strength. You'd both do well together, I can tell."
"I'll think about it," I say carefully, though I'm not sure what to make of it all. The weight of her words lingers long after I've said my goodbyes and walked away, leaving me wondering if this is a path I should even consider.