I saw him every morning for nearly a year—same bench, same brown paper bag, same quiet whistle. And always, the same little sparrow. It would land on his knee like it belonged there. The world moved around them, but they sat in a stillness all their own. He fed it bits of bread, murmuring in a language I didn’t know. Once, when I asked if it was his pet, he said, “No. He’s just repaying a debt.” I didn’t press.
The routine never changed—until one day, the bird didn’t show. The man sat, whistling, waiting. Then, finally, it came… and dropped a gold ring into his lap. He pocketed it, stood up, and walked away. He never returned. But the sparrow kept coming back—landing on the bench each morning. Alone. I got curious. Sat longer. Brought bread. Even asked the groundskeeper—he said the man was a retired jeweler. Lived alone. Quiet. A week later, I followed the bird. It led me through the city to a weathered house with an overflowing mailbox. I left a note.
