He was curled into himself, soaked through, wearing a torn coat. His face was pale, his lips bluish from the cold. Beside him sat a battered cloth bag, barely holding together.
People passed without stopping. Some glanced briefly, others looked away entirely.
Margaret stood still.
After a moment, she stepped closer.
“Sir… are you all right?” she asked quietly.
The man opened his eyes with effort.
“Don’t worry. I’m fine,” he said, forcing a weak smile.
Margaret didn’t question him. She took a warm bread roll from her basket, wrapped it carefully, and handed it to him.
“Eat. Cold is worse when your stomach’s empty.”
He stared at the bread as if it were sacred.
“For me?”
She nodded.
“Yes. I still have more.”
It wasn’t true. It was the last one.
Without thinking, she removed her thin raincoat and placed it over his shoulders.
“You can’t stay here tonight. My room is small, but it has a roof.”
The man looked at her for a long moment, disbelief in his eyes. Finally, he nodded.
That night, Margaret’s tiny room had a guest. She prepared a thin pot of oatmeal with cinnamon. He ate slowly, carefully, in a way that didn’t match his appearance.