He had always watched them, the ones who came and went. That was simply his existence. From his vantage point in the west corridor, he saw countless faces pass by each day. Some hurried, barely glancing, others lingered, their eyes meeting his for fleeting moments.
He didn’t know who he was or how long he’d been there. Time flowed differently for him, marked only by the changing faces, the shifting light, and the occasional darkness when the building closed.
It was a Tuesday, when he first noticed her.
Unlike the others, she wasn’t simply passing through. She stood before him, her eyes red-rimmed, shoulders slightly hunched. Her sadness radiated like a physical force. He felt it wash over him, a heaviness, a hollowness.
She stayed for nearly an hour, just standing there, looking, but not really seeing.
Three days later, she returned. Same posture, same sad eyes.
He found himself waiting for her, scanning each approaching figure until he recognized her dark wavy hair and hesitant gait. Again, her sadness enveloped him.
This became their routine. Every few days, she would appear, and he would wait, anticipating her arrival. Her sadness became familiar to him, a conversation they share without words.
Then she disappeared.
One week passed.
Then another.
He searched for her among the daily visitors, feeling an unfamiliar anxiety every time she didn’t appear.
Had something happened? Had her sadness become too much?
When she finally returned after twenty-three days, he’d counted. He felt such relief it startled him.
But something was different. Her sadness had deepened. It pressed against him with a new weight.
As he absorbed her emotion, a strange thought occurred to him, if he could feel her sadness, might she feel something from him?
The next time she came, he concentrated hard, trying to project comfort toward her. He focused on warmth, on understanding.
She stood motionless, giving no sign she felt anything.
He tried again when she returned, focusing on different emotions, empathy, solidarity, reassurance. Nothing seemed to work. She remained encased in her sadness, unreachable.
What if he was wrong? What if he couldn’t reach her?
On her eighth visit after returning, as she turned to leave, he felt desperate. A cold dread, sharper than any sorrow he’d known, told him this might be his last chance. Her visits were growing more sporadic, her pain growing. If he couldn’t reach her now, would he ever?
He gathered every bit of compassion he possessed and imagined pushing it toward her like a wave. She stopped, halfway to the exit, turned slowly, looked back at him with slight confusion in her eyes.
He froze. Had she felt something?
But she shook her head and continued walking.
She didn’t return for eleven days. The silence that followed was heavier than any sadness she had brought.
He feared she wouldn’t come back at all.
Each sunrise brought a fresh wave of anxiety, and he meticulously counted the hours, then the days, a ritual that had never marked his timeless existence before.
The building, usually a predictable backdrop, now felt vast and empty without the possibility of her return.
But then she was there, standing before him once more.
He didn’t hesitate and concentrated every fiber of his being on sending her comfort, understanding, hope, everything he wanted to communicate.
Her eyes widened. She tilted her head, as if listening for a distant sound. And then, a miracle, the corner of her mouth twitched upward. A smile, small but unmistakable. The first he’d ever seen from her.
For him, it wasn’t just a flicker of light; it was as if a thousand suns had ignited within his long dormant world.
She stayed longer that day, the sadness still there but now accompanied by curiosity.
He continued to project comfort, now with a new purpose, a renewed hope. It was as though he was tending a fragile flame, carefully nurturing it with every ounce of his being.
As she left, she looked back at him, that small smile still playing on her lips.
When she returned next, she wasn’t alone. A younger woman accompanied her, their resemblance suggesting a sister. They stood together, speaking in hushed tones he couldn’t hear.
He concentrated again, projecting warmth toward both of them.
Her sister gasped, grabbing the woman’s arm. They exchanged words, eyes wide, both smiling, laughing.
His heart soared at the laughter, even though he couldn’t hear it. He’d done this, brought laughter where there had been only sadness.
As they prepared to leave, the woman turned back. She looked directly at him and mouthed two words clearly: “Thank You.”
He understood, and it filled him with joy unlike anything he’d known in his strange existence.
They were still smiling as they walked away, and he was content in a way he’d never experienced.
He no longer simply observed. He took part, offering a connection to those who passed.
He watched other visitors come and go, waiting for her next visit, wondering what they might share next.
He noticed a staff member approaching, straightening frames and dusting surfaces. The employee’s nametag read “MARTIN” in bold letters. Martin paused directly in front of him.
“Still my favorite piece in the collection,” Martin said, adjusting the small brass plaque below that read Portrait of an Unknown Gentleman, circa 1887. “Always feels like he’s watching us, doesn’t it?”
Martin moved on, whistling, unaware that from within his gilded frame, the unknown gentleman was indeed watching, and feeling everything.