Staring out my window at the nearly vacant parking lot below, I was suddenly reminded of the saddest man I had ever seen.

It had been two—no three, years ago.

I had been at a bus station but I wasn’t waiting for the bus. For me, it was merely a convenient landmark. The day had been exceptionally gloomy, with an overcast sky filled with thick joyless clouds.

Despite the Murakami book in my hand, time passed slowly. It was a peculiar motion that caught my attention out of the corner of my eye.

The motion turned out to be the awkward movements of a tall, rather fat man who took heavy, slow steps. Deliberate and methodical he had the gait of a barely working machine. His shoulders drooped and he pitched forward constantly, as if always on the verge of falling over. He didn’t look forward, merely kept his eyes on the ground.

We waited at the bus stop together without speaking.

Once, he passed a hand over his eyes and when the bus came he boarded it. I read later that he took his own life that same night.