Their laughter rang through the air, loud and unrestrained. I was grateful they could still laugh like that.

I followed slowly, my tote bag slung over my shoulder. Inside was my worn wallet, a half-eaten granola bar, a squashed juice box, and—always—the pouch of markers. Thick ones, thin ones, every color imaginable. They came everywhere with us. Drawing was my secret weapon for keeping the kids calm in waiting rooms, lines, or church pews.

We stopped at a bench near a curve in the path. Adam was already stacking chestnuts into a crooked tower, counting under his breath. Alice crouched beside him, trying to build hers higher.

“Mommy, look!” she cried. “Mine’s winning!”

“You’re both architects in the making,” I teased, smiling at their creations.

That’s when I saw him.

Just off the path, near some bushes, an elderly man sat cross-legged on a frayed rug. His head hung low, his shoulders heavy, as if carrying years of unseen weight. Beside him lay a piece of cardboard with black, uneven letters: I AM BLIND. PLEASE HELP.

Something inside me twisted. He wasn’t calling out or reaching for anyone. He simply sat in silence, invisible while the world streamed by.