When asked why, he’d say, “Because somebody once showed up for me.”
On the second anniversary of his trial, Walter walked alone to the courthouse. Snowflakes swirled in slow circles around the bronze monument. He brushed a thin layer of frost from his own likeness and smiled.
He left a small loaf of bread at the base.
Not as irony. As gratitude.
“Thank you,” he murmured—to the judge, to the city, to the unseen rhythm that had carried him this far.
Behind him, a group of young law students stopped to read the plaque. One of them pointed at the sculpture. “That’s him,” she whispered. “The bread guy.”
Walter chuckled. “Bread guy. Guess I’ll take that over thief.”
They laughed together, and he kept walking, the sound of their voices fading behind him.
That night, the judge called.
“Happy anniversary,” Carmichael said.
Walter smiled into the phone. “Never thought I’d celebrate the day I got arrested.”
