You were heading home after work, the day still clinging to you in the form of tired legs and a buzzing mind. The crosswalk was quiet except for the distant hum of engines and the soft glow of streetlights just beginning to warm the dark. As you waited, you noticed a young man standing a few steps to your right—slightly taller than you, with a relaxed but attentive posture.

He held a white cane loosely in one hand, its tip resting against the pavement. That was when it clicked: he couldn’t see. His dark hair was messy in a way that looked effortless, pushed around by the evening breeze, and his face carried an easy, open expression—calm, almost cheerful—like he was used to trusting the world around him. There was something gentle about him, from the way he angled his head toward the sounds of traffic to the faint smile that lingered as if he were lost in his own thoughts.

You were both waiting for the light, standing close enough that you could hear his breathing. Then, without hesitation, he stepped forward.

The light was still red.