The Boy Who Replied to Stars

The first time I saw him, I was twelve.

He was standing beneath the flickering streetlamp at the corner of Rosewood Avenue and 3rd Street. Long beige coat, black gloves, a suitcase in his right hand. He looked out of place—like someone who had stepped out of an old movie and gotten lost in the wrong decade.

I thought he was waiting for someone.

But no one ever came.

Every day for a week, I passed that same corner on my way to school. And every day, he was there.

Same spot. Same coat. Same unreadable face.

I finally asked my mother, “Who’s the man on 3rd Street?”

She blinked. “What man?”

“The one with the suitcase. He’s there every day.”

She looked concerned, even a little scared. “You must be imagining things.”

But I wasn’t.

Because exactly ten years later—on the same date—I saw him again.

I was twenty-two, working as a delivery driver. I’d forgotten all about the man until I turned down Rosewood Avenue and there he was—standing exactly where I’d seen him as a child.

He hadn’t aged a day.

Same beige coat. Same black gloves. Same suitcase.

As if time had circled back and placed him like a bookmark in the street.

This time, I pulled over.

I got out of the van, walked toward him slowly, cautiously. He turned his head slightly when he noticed me.

His face was calm. Eyes unreadable. But he looked at me like he’d been waiting.

“Do you need help?” I asked.

“No,” he said simply.

“Are you lost?”

He shook his head.

“Waiting for someone?”

A pause. Then a faint smile. “I already met them. A long time ago.”

And then, he turned around and walked away—vanishing into a narrow alleyway that led nowhere.

When I looked down that alley, it was empty. Just old bricks and silence.

Ten years later, I was thirty-two. Married. A kid on the way. I hadn’t thought about him in years—until I drove by Rosewood again on my way to a friend’s dinner party.

And there he was.

Same man. Same spot. Same clothes. No older.

This time, I parked and approached with purpose.

“You’re real,” I said. “You’re not a ghost. Who are you?”

He turned slowly, a kindness in his eyes now. “You’ve grown,” he said.

“You remember me?”

“I remember everyone I meet. But most don’t remember me.”

“Why do you come here every ten years?”

“To remember someone I once loved,” he said softly.

“Who?”

He looked past me, toward the empty sidewalk across the street. “She stood right there. In 1955. She wore a blue dress. I told her I’d find a way back.”

He sighed, eyes misted but not crying.

“She’s long gone now. But time is a circle for some of us. I return every ten years, on the day I met her.”

I didn’t know what to say.

It sounded impossible. But something about him—his presence, his sadness—it all felt true.

He reached into his coat and handed me a folded paper.

“Keep this. One day, it’ll make sense.”

Then he walked away once more. Same alley. Same vanishing act.

When I opened the paper, there was only a sentence:

“One day, someone will wait for you too. Don’t be late.”

Ten more years passed.

I was forty-two. Life had changed. My wife had left. My daughter was grown. I lived alone, and I found myself driving back to Rosewood without knowing why.

And I stood there. On 3rd Street. Under the flickering lamp.

Waiting.

This time, he didn’t come.

But a young man did.

Maybe twenty, maybe younger. Confused. Curious.

He walked toward me and asked, “Are you okay, sir?”

And I smiled. Because now, I understood.

final Reflection

Some people don’t live in years.

They live in moments that echo again and again—looking for closure, for connection, for that one person who meant the world.

The man in the coat taught me that time isn’t always a straight line.

Sometimes it returns to the same corner, the same face, the same love—

—until someone is ready to say goodbye.

Or ready to wait.