The sixth morning felt… different.
6:40 a.m.
I was early this time.
The city was just beginning to stretch awake—shops half-open, a few matatus warming their engines, the air still carrying that quiet before the noise takes over.
But the bus stop—
was empty.
No brown jacket.
No black bag.
No man standing still against the movement of the city.
For a moment, I thought I was just early.
6:41.
6:43.
6:45.
People came and went. The mandazi seller arrived and set up her tray. A conductor shouted destinations with the same energy as every other morning.
Life continued exactly as it should.
Except… he wasn’t there.
A strange feeling settled in my chest.
I stayed.
6:50.
Still nothing.
The same corner he always watched remained just a corner again—ordinary, unnoticed, empty.
6:55.
I found myself looking down the road the way he used to.
Waiting.
7:00 a.m.
For the first time since I had known him… no one checked a watch beside me.
No quiet voice said, “Time.”
No footsteps walked away.
Just the city, moving forward like it always does.
I stood there a little longer than I should have.
Then, just as I was about to leave, the mandazi seller called out to me.
“You’re looking for the old man?”
I turned quickly.
“Yes… do you know him?”
She nodded slowly.
“He used to come here every morning.”
I hesitated.
“Used to?”
She looked at me carefully, as if deciding how much to say.
“Yesterday evening… someone said he passed away.”
The words didn’t land immediately.
They just… hovered.
“What?” I asked quietly.
She sighed.
“Old age, they said. Peaceful.”
For a moment, the noise of the city seemed distant.
Muted.
Like everything had stepped back to make room for that one sentence.
I looked down at the notebook still in my hands.
Daniel’s notebook.
And suddenly, everything made sense.
The lighter mood.
The stories.
The way he kept looking at that corner.
The way he smiled before he left.
He knew.
Or maybe… he simply felt it.
I walked back to the exact spot where he used to stand.
Same ground. Same view of the road.
I looked at the corner across the street.
Cars passed. People walked. Life moved.
But for a brief second—
it didn’t feel empty.
It felt… remembered.
Slowly, I opened the notebook.
The first page was simple.
One line, written in slightly uneven handwriting:
“Some people don’t leave. They just become part of the story.”
I closed it gently.
Then, without realizing it—
I checked the time.
7:00 a.m.
For the first time…
I understood why he always waited.