I went for a walk today.

I saw an elderly gentleman in a beige ensemble strolling steadily. There was no rush in his steps; there was no need to be anywhere but here.

Perhaps this was his daily ritual, his moment to reconnect with himself, his memories, and the world that continues to change around him. He moved with the quiet confidence of someone who had walked many roads before, had seen life unfold in seasons, and had learned that sometimes, joy is simply being present.

I saw a young gentleman reading a book, his bike resting idly beside him. He was somewhere else entirely, lost in the world of words, yet still here, absorbing the rustling leaves, the distant laughter of children, and the soft hum of passing conversations. His joy was not in the walk itself but in the permission, it gave him to pause.

There is a particular kind of happiness in getting lost while standing still, in knowing that the world moves around you, but for a little while, you don’t have to move with it.

I saw a recent widow with a dog on a walk. There was a quiet determination in her steps, the movement more about necessity than desire. Perhaps walking had once been something she shared with someone else, a part of a routine now shattered. But she was here, and so was the dog, a silent companion in the weight of her grief.