The Return

By Alexandros Valsamis

Every year, on the same day, the city seemed to hold its breath—as if time itself hesitated to move forward. The usual cacophony of honking cars and bustling footsteps faded into a distant murmur, its rhythm slowing, felt only by one wandering soul among millions. The air was thick with a fragile stillness, as if the world had paused to honor a secret sorrow.

It was the 24th of May when a ragged man drifted through the streets, moving from one bakery to another. He didn’t look at the pastries—only the prices. He knew exactly how much he had. He bargained as best he could, and at the bakery where his small change was enough, he bought four pastries.

He asked that they be placed not in the usual paper box but in a delicate clear plastic tray embossed with little daisies. The scent of fresh dough and sweet chocolate lingered faintly around the tray, a gentle reminder of warmth and joy long absent. He carried them away in a simple plastic bag.

He didn’t sit on a bench to eat them. Instead, he climbed toward the foothills and settled on a step of the concrete staircase that split the slope in two. The afternoon light cast long shadows, softening the harsh edges of the city below.

He stared down at the city—the roofs, the roads, the noise—so far away, as if life itself were unfolding somewhere else. He felt empty; the city felt empty too. He breathed that emptiness deep into his bones, like a cold wind that would not relent. Tears rolled down his face—silent, stubborn, like rain that refused to cease. When the tears ran dry, he placed the bag beside him with care. Then he rose and walked away, his steps heavy, almost dragging.

A boy passing by spotted him from a distance as he left. Curious, the boy stepped closer to the bag.

“Sir! Sir, you forgot your bag! There are sweets inside!” he shouted, running after him with the bag in hand.

The man didn’t answer at first. It had been a long time since anyone called after him. The boy’s voice sounded almost strange, like a memory half-remembered.

When he finally paused, he said softly,

“Keep them, my boy. They’re clean. You can eat them.”

The boy peeked inside.

“But there are four. I can’t eat them all by myself.”

“Take them home. Do you have siblings?”

“No. And my parents aren’t supposed to eat sweets. To be honest, I don’t really like them either. I’m not used to them.”

The man rested his gaze on the boy with something like a smile.

“That’s good. They’re not healthy. But once in a while… it’s alright. Pick whichever one you like.”

The boy hesitated.

“Alone? Come sit with me under that tree. We can each have one.”

The man paused again. The cloud of sorrow around him seemed to thin just a little.

“I swore I’d never eat sweets again… But I’ll sit with you, if you’d like.”

“If you don’t eat them, why did you buy them?” the boy asked, almost in a whisper, as they reached a tree and sat beneath its shade.

The tree was old, its gnarled branches stretching wide as if to shelter memories as well as people. A soft breeze fluttered through the leaves, carrying a bird’s gentle song—tiny sparks of life weaving between past and present.

The man didn’t answer immediately.

“Most people I meet feel sorry for me and give me a few coins to ease their conscience. Others are afraid and walk away without a word. But eat your pastry first,” he said softly, “and then I’ll tell you a story no one has ever heard from me before. A story about why these pastries have come to rest here—and how life, in its cruel unpredictability, can shatter everything we hold dear in a single breath.”

He hesitated for a moment before speaking. “Fourteen years ago, right where I left the bag, was my home. That’s where I lived with my wife and our two children.

It was a Sunday—May 24th. We were preparing lunch, and I went out to buy dessert. Since the nearby bakery was closed, I walked farther, into the city center. I picked out the best pastries.

When I came back… there was nothing left. Only smoke curling into a bright blue sky that did not care. The house was gone—reduced to ash. The flames had taken it all in one breath. The fire department said the gas had exploded. Everything I had loved vanished in minutes.

Since then, every year on the same day, I buy four pastries and come to the same spot. I let myself believe, for just a moment, that it was all a bad dream, and when I arrive, they’ll all be at the table again.

The rest of the year… I simply wait. And as long as I wait, I remember them—and they live with me.

Sometimes, in the quiet moments, I feel their presence—warm and fleeting, like the last golden light before dusk. And now that you know how your pastry came to be here… they’ll live on as long as you remember them.”

The boy had stopped eating. He held the pastry in his hand as if it were something fragile, with reverence. He didn’t know what to say.

Silently, he held out the box of sweets to the man. After another moment of hesitation, the man gently touched the corner of one pastry with his finger, as if it mattered deeply. Then he placed the finger in his mouth and tasted the chocolate—for the first time in fourteen years.

They remained silent for a while.

Between them, the past—heavy, invisible, real.

The boy took another bite, and the taste seemed richer now.

He chewed slowly, almost ceremonially, as if he were engraving this moment into his memory forever—as if with each bite he were building a bridge between the living and the remembered.