Every midday, on the dot, she'd shuffle to the same bench outside the bus station. She'd sit down, pull out a pack of boiled sweets, and slowly work through it while staring at everyone getting off the bus.
I asked around, and everyone said she'd been doing this for years, and she was waiting for her son, who had gone off to fight a war.
So I started making her a coffee every day. She appreciated it, and we chatted, she seemed together enough for someone mad with grief.
At least, until the day her son got off the bus.