Mr. Henry’s Secret Walk

Every morning at seven, Mr. Henry would sit on the same bench in the park.

He’d pour seeds for the pigeons from a small bag. He always had the same stern face.

The neighbors thought he was a weirdo. A lonely, bitter old man whose only friends were

birds. I thought so too. I lived across the street and saw him every day.

Sometimes I wanted to approach him, but his expression wasn't exactly inviting. Then,

one evening, I saw something strange. It was after nine, already dark.

Mr. Henry left his house. Not in his old coat, but in a regular jacket.

He walked briskly, carrying a package under his arm. I decided to follow him,