Every morning, before the town stirred awake, he appeared with the same heavy load strapped across his back.
By dusk, when people gathered to drink cold beer and share stories, he was still carrying it.
He never joined anyone. Never sat down. Never stopped for a drink. He always walked alone.
We often wondered about the old man, who looked well over sixty-five.
Some people said the bag held treasure. Others said it carried memories. No one knew.
Every evening, before the rest of us drifted home, he disappeared with that same heavy load still on his back.
Day after day. Year after year.