It was Wednesday. Or rather, Wednesday night going into Thursday morning. A normal day, a workday. So why hadn’t that group of people stopped chatting so animatedly beside his house? Their voices came through the windowpanes loud and clear. They had been at it for quite a while, and he would not be able to go out as long as they remained there.

He tried to make out the fragmented conversations—laughter, jokes, weekend plans—and felt that familiar mixture of aversion and melancholy. Those people seemed to be coming from a party, and that was what made it strange. If it were Friday or Saturday, it would make sense. But on a Wednesday? Why wouldn’t they just leave? His street was not usually very busy, although naturally, people who lived in the area passed through it.

Although, judging by the voices, there did not seem to be any women among those gathered, he was a recluse and a misanthrope, and running into anyone was always unpleasant. It was not that he hated people. He had simply learned, through painful mistakes, that it was better to keep them at a distance.

He felt no urge to sleep, having already rested during the day. The long, intense hours spent pleading with God for an improvement in his precarious situation seemed to have borne fruit, and Lucretia barely crossed his mind anymore. He had even managed to clothe her; when she did appear, she was solemn, unadorned by makeup, and clad in a loose tunic that concealed her every curve and charm. It was an improvement that had, at the very least, returned him—more or less—to his former state of normalcy.

The group of revelers was still chatting animatedly in front of his house. It was already one-thirty in the morning, and he needed to hurry to complete his usual route—which was always the same, give or take a few variations. But they simply wouldn't leave, and that meant there was a chance he might run straight into the woman from the restaurant; statistically speaking, this was the time she usually appeared.

Finally, they said their goodbyes and left, and Alder carefully opened the door. He looked both ways down the street and, to his relief, saw no one. He was free to step out; perhaps the woman had already passed by.

But no. As soon as he turned the corner, he came face-to-face with her. He instantly lowered his gaze, yet he couldn't help but catch a glimpse of her silhouette for a split second—just long enough to make out some details.

She was a dark-haired woman in her forties, wearing her hair in a ponytail. At that moment, she was talking on her cell phone. At this time? he wondered. Who could she be talking to? She was wearing black polyester trousers and a short-sleeved white shirt—which, thankfully, wasn't too tight, so he couldn't clearly make out the contours of her body, even though he was walking through an area well-lit by streetlamps. Thank goodness! he told himself; the encounter caused only a brief pang of unease that quickly faded. In fact, the woman didn't even look at him, as she was completely engrossed in her conversation. That fact played a major role in ensuring that, despite passing within a yard of her, the incident wasn't all that traumatic.

He took a deep breath and kept walking, trying to resume his route, although he would have to skip some sections. There was no longer enough time to head toward the pastureland—the heat had already dried up all the puddles—and this time he would have to follow an entirely urban route.

With his mind completely at ease, he set out through the poorer neighborhoods, made up of blocks of small apartments built for day laborers and low-wage workers. Buildings like the ones he had visited in his former life as a door-to-door salesman. How distant that world seemed now, he told himself. The world he had lived in so long ago…

Perhaps that was why, being accustomed to walking, he did not mind spending four or five hours every night roaming the town—aside from the fatigue and the length of time he had already been following the same routine day after day. Perhaps too long, after all.

Yet there was one incomparable advantage over his youth: back then, his work had forced him to interact with people, whereas now he had finally freed himself from that torture. Walking alone was therefore a delight—the only satisfaction his miserable existence afforded him.

He rejoiced in that thought and focused on finding the night breeze, which, although it had already died down somewhat, grew a little stronger whenever he turned onto certain streets.

That was when he thought he heard an unusual sound, seemingly carried on that same breeze.

In fact, he heard sobbing from across the road, in the park beside the station. At first, it was only a distant murmur, barely identifiable, yet clearly audible in the silence of the night. His natural instinct as a loner urged him to move away, but curiosity held him back.

He approached slowly through the trees, taking care not to make any noise that might give him away. The park paths were clear, and it was safe to walk slowly along them or across the grass. Farther ahead, however, there were twigs and dry leaves that could expose him if he stepped on them. So he stopped and watched from a distance, shielded by a tree.

From where he stood, he caught sight of the bench where the crying person sat. He could see only the person’s back, slightly in profile, without being able to make out clearly who it was. The figure wore a light-colored T-shirt and remained with head bowed and hands pressed to it, letting out a sob every few seconds.

After a while, the person sat upright and looked ahead, leaning back against the bench and resting both hands in their lap. Then he saw clearly. It was a woman. A young woman… Precisely the kind of person he tried to avoid at all costs.

The wanderer turned around and pressed his back against the tree. The woman would not be able to see him now even if she turned, but he would have to get out of there quickly in case she stood up and headed his way.

Several seconds passed as Alder considered what to do. Perhaps the girl would eventually leave through the far end of the park and disappear, or perhaps she would exit through the area where he stood. If so, he needed to leave at once, because he could not—did not want to—see any woman up close, especially a young one. The memory of the pastureland was still fresh, not only in his mind but on his back as well.

He was still wrestling with those thoughts when the girl began to cry again.

A wrenching cry that echoed with something all too familiar: the same emptiness, the same despair he carried within him.

His misanthropy screamed at him to leave. His conscience, however, reminded him that helping another person came before his own torment.

So he was compelled to go to her. There was no other choice. Helping someone in need came before his aversions, even though the girl would probably ignore him altogether. Still, at least he would make his presence known.

He took a deep breath and stepped out of the shadows, moving cautiously along the path and trying not to make much noise. Why was she crying? he wondered. She had probably had a fight with her boyfriend and was heartbroken.

"Women…" he said to himself. "They like the ‘alpha male,’ the bad-boy type. Precisely the kind of man who is worst for them—the one who is sure to break their hearts."

To his surprise, the girl didn’t notice him until he was practically right on top of her. Now that she was close, he could make out the details. She was a teenager. She was wearing jeans and the white T-shirt he had already spotted from a distance. Her hair was somewhat short—though not too short—a messy, dark, shoulder-length cut that partially hid a pale complexion and a face contorted by pain.

The girl wasn’t particularly attractive, though she couldn’t be called ugly either. She was of medium build—neither fat nor thin, perhaps a bit on the heavy side; even though she had lost weight, she retained the broad face and sturdy build typical of a bone structure designed to carry more weight.

Fortunately for Alder, the girl didn’t display any of the "charms" he had feared encountering: no plunging neckline, no tight T-shirt, no skirt or shorts that were too short. Very modest… Thank goodness. Thank goodness!, he told himself.

That reassured him, and he paused as he passed by—overcoming his own feelings of revulsion—and looked at her with all the affection he could muster, trying to maintain an expression that invited conversation.

She started, however, and looked up at him with red, swollen eyes, her face full of fear. And with good reason: an older man, disheveled, gaunt, and wearing worn-out clothes... Only his kindly expression and that smile kept her from running off right then and there.

"Do you need help?" he ventured, his voice soft and raspy—little more than a whisper.

Emma remained motionless, staring at him with disdain.

"No," she replied harshly, turning her head away.

"Sorry. Anyway, I’ll be over on that bench," he said, pointing to it, "in case you need to talk."

The wanderer walked away and sat down where he had said he would, about forty or fifty paces away. There he paused, trying to relax and taking deep breaths to calm his anxiety.

Although his heart was pounding, he focused on the trees in front of him and watched the leaves stir gently in the faint breeze. In truth, he thought, it was highly unlikely that she would come talk to him. Most likely, once the girl had told herself that "all guys are the same" and other things along those lines, she would eventually leave. She would go home to sleep, and that would be the end of it. He had already fulfilled his duty by offering to help; the rest was in God’s hands. So far, the experience had not been too traumatic, which surprised even him.

In any case, he prayed that if she did come over, God would give him the strength to endure it. That despite his aversions, he would be able to offer a smile, a friendly expression, and a few words of comfort if needed. Although comforting people had never been one of his strengths… Well, he told himself, he could at least keep her company and listen. That was always welcome and easy enough to do. "God help me…"

For a moment, Emma set her thoughts aside and focused on the man, never taking her eyes off him. He was sitting with his back to her and occasionally turned his head in her direction, though without actually looking at her. He remained there, doing nothing, on the right side of the bench, his elbows resting on the backrest.

That guy over there... the two of them alone in a park far from any houses, in the dead of night... If he had wanted to rape her, he could have done so without any trouble. But she felt she was worth so little, she told herself, that even that wretch couldn't possibly be interested in her.

She began to cry again, and her mind started racing with the wildest thoughts. She dwelt on all her phobias, her anxieties, her fears... She even considered approaching the man and stripping naked in front of him, just to see if that might spark his interest. And she didn't just think about it; she actually came close to doing it—a glaring symptom of her undiagnosed bipolar disorder, as she would swing between moments of intense, effusive openness and others of marked withdrawal and apathy. Likewise, she cycled through phases of severe anorexia and bulimia in that relentless battle against her own body.

Food, then, was both an enemy and an ally: an obstacle to maintaining a good figure, but sometimes a refuge when she no longer cared about anything and gave herself over to endless binges.

Half an hour passed. Alder was breathing easily now, since if she had not come over by then, she most likely never would. He would resume his walk and leave if she did not approach within the next few minutes.

Emma, for her part, after spending so long absorbed in her anguished thoughts, looked back toward the bench. The man was still there, unmoving, staring into the distance.

Then she made up her mind. She walked over and sat to his left, close to the far end of the bench. Since it was a long bench, she was still about five or seven feet away from him.

Alder had already noticed her approaching. He did not look, but the sound of her footsteps alerted him. So he took a deep breath and crossed himself, making the sign of the cross. She did not see the gesture because his back was turned. When she sat down, he began to feel the same agitation as before, but he managed to compose himself and do what he had to do: he looked at her for a moment with kindness, then turned his gaze back toward the distance.