A man sits with his face buried in his hands.
Either he is restless or hiding the tears.
His hands fold open like shutters and there it is,
sadness smudged across his cheeks.

I turn my head to the echo of a stranger’s name.
Relieved, my chest releases another breath.
I turn back around only to see an empty chair,
remembering that every stranger belongs to someone.

In the corner, a child rest his head on his mother’s lap,
gazing at the television hanging from the ceiling.
Her fingers, polished with red paint runs across his hair
while her other hand grips tissues soaked with worry.

As the doors swing back and forth, night turns into day
and with each footstep treads bad news.
A mother cries, a son wonders, and I wait.
Still, no word of my stranger.