The baker on 5th counts exactly forty-seven loaves each morning. He has never sold more than thirty-two. The remaining fifteen sit in the window until closing, their crusts darkening like tanned skin, and he talks to them about the weather.

She stands at the crosswalk with her hand raised — a crossing guard for an intersection where the school closed nine years ago. Cars slow down anyway. Something about her conviction makes the traffic believe.

The window washer on the Meridian Tower sees into three hundred lives every Tuesday. He knows who eats lunch alone, who dances when they think no one's watching, who stares at the same photograph on their desk. He has never told anyone. He considers this his greatest kindness.

Every evening at 6:47, the man at bus stop 14 checks his watch, looks up, and sits back down. The 6:47 bus was discontinued in 2019. He's not waiting for the bus. He's waiting for the version of himself who used to ride it.

The florist wraps bouquets in yesterday's newspaper. She reads every headline before it becomes packaging. Today's roses are wrapped in a story about a man who walked across an entire country. She wonders if anyone ever brought him flowers.