An older man, weathered by years on the street, was preparing for another long day by the river. His battered backpack—faded and threadbare—held his entire fishing kit: old hooks, used floats, and bait packed in mismatched jars and boxes. Fishing wasn’t a pastime for him. It was survival.
He wore a patched-up coat and mismatched rubber boots, one tighter than the other. But he didn’t complain. The river was his daily hope — maybe a fish or two would mean a meal. Maybe a stranger would offer tea. Most days, he counted only on himself.
