A commotion pulls my attention.

The door to the Yamato Grocery slams open with a crack that echoes off the neighboring buildings. A small figure stumbles out backward, his sandals skidding on the dusty ground. He's blond—sunlight catching on spikes of hair that stick up in every direction like he stuck his finger in a socket.

He hits the ground hard, palms scraping against the stone.

The boy doesn't move at first. He just stares at the ground, shoulders trembling. I'm close enough now to see the way his knuckles are white, clenched into fists against the cobbles. The way his jaw is set tight, like he's trying so hard not to cry.

I stop walking.

The shoppers on the street give him a wide berth—a full three feet of empty space around him like he's contagious. A woman pulls her child closer. An old man mutters something under his breath and spits to the side.

The boy stands up slowly. Brushes off his orange jacket. Stuffes the coin pouch into his pocket without checking how much is in it. His chin wobbles.

He wipes his face with the back of his hand and starts walking, head down.

No one says a word.