My only memory of him is of a moving figure behind piles of Newspaper.
I’d pull out a copy of the paper I wanted, say it out loud, leave the coin on the stack and walk away, heading for class or towards a train, back home. In the background a railway employee announced train departures and schedules in her rehearsed nasal tone.
On some days (when I was paying more attention) I’d catch a glimpse of his cotton shirt – simple and unremarkable – and a pair of spectacles, if I’m not mistaken.
I search and search for a memory from those six years. At times I remember headlines. I remember incidents. I even remember magazine covers. But I can’t remember his face.
He was killed in the attack at CST last year.