At first, he tried to keep up, but soon the noise overwhelmed him.
He missed silence, the quiet rhythm of anonymity.
Sometimes, at night, he slipped out of the barracks and walked the Brooklyn streets, retracing old routes. He’d pass Morrelli’s Market, its neon sign glowing against the frost. One night, Mr. Morrelli himself stepped outside and froze when he saw him.
“Mr. Grady…” the shopkeeper said quietly.
Walter stopped. “Evening.”
“I—I didn’t know,” Morrelli stammered. “About who you were. I thought—”
“You thought I was trouble,” Walter said, not unkindly.
“I was wrong.” The man’s voice cracked. “I’m sorry.”
Walter looked at the window where his reflection stood beside the words Since 1963. “No harm done,” he said. “I got what I needed.”
Morrelli blinked. “You mean justice?”
Walter shook his head. “Bread.”
Then he smiled, just a hint of humor breaking through the weariness. Morrelli laughed in relief, the sound echoing into the cold night.
