The seventh morning, I didn’t hesitate.
6:40 a.m.
I was already there.
Same bus stop. Same street. Same corner across the road.
But this time, I stood where he used to stand.
Not beside it.
Not near it.
Exactly there.
The city moved like it always does—unbothered, unaware, alive. Matatus roared past, conductors calling out destinations, people rushing into another day that refused to slow down for anyone.
And yet, in the middle of all that movement—
I stayed still.
Waiting.
At first, it felt strange.
Pointless, even.
I understood now that no one was coming. Not him. Not Daniel. Not the version of that morning that once existed.
But still…
I waited.
A boda rider slowed down near me.
“Boss, unangoja nini?” he asked. What are you waiting for?
I paused for a second.
Then I answered honestly.
“A story.”
He laughed and sped off.
I almost laughed too.
But deep down, I knew it wasn’t a joke.
The mandazi seller glanced at me briefly, then continued arranging her tray. A conductor shouted “TOWN!” in my direction, but I didn’t move.
For the first time, I understood what it meant to be part of a routine that no longer made sense to anyone else.
6:50 a.m.
I took out the notebook.
Daniel’s notebook.
The pages were filled with small entries. Observations. Thoughts. Pieces of conversations. Moments that seemed ordinary—until they were written down.
One line caught my attention:
“If nobody tells these stories, it will be like they never happened.”
I read it again.
And again.
Then I looked up at the street.
Same chaos. Same noise. Same endless motion.
But something had changed.
I wasn’t just seeing it anymore.
I was noticing it.
A man arguing over change.
A woman laughing into her phone.
A kid running late, just like Daniel used to.
Stories.
Everywhere.
At exactly 7:00 a.m., without thinking—
I checked my watch.
The habit felt… natural now.
I looked toward the corner one last time.
Empty.
But not the kind of empty that feels lost.
The kind that feels… complete.
I closed the notebook and held it firmly.
Then I spoke quietly, almost without realizing:
“Same time tomorrow.”
The words didn’t feel strange.
They felt right.
Because some routines don’t end.
They evolve.
And some people don’t disappear.
They leave something behind.
A place.
A moment.
A story.
And sometimes—
they leave it to someone else to keep it alive.