Mara took the narrow street because the main road had gathered a line of cars beneath the afternoon rain. She had never turned there before. The pavement dipped toward a row of brick houses, their front steps dark with water.
At the corner, a man stood beside a bicycle with its chain resting loose against the frame. A paper bag sat carefully on the dry patch beneath a shop awning. He looked from the bike to the road, as though one might explain the other.
“It came off just here,” he said when Mara slowed. “I thought I could fix it, but I’m not sure what I’m looking at.”
She knew enough to turn the pedals by hand. They tried together: he held the bicycle steady while she eased the chain back onto the teeth. Grease marked her thumb. The wheel gave a small, uneven turn, then another.
“There,” he said, with the quiet relief of a person who had been expecting a more complicated answer. He offered her a folded handkerchief for her hand. She thanked him and tucked it into her coat pocket.
They walked in the same direction for a few streets. He was carrying a loaf of bread for someone waiting at home; she was on her way to nowhere in particular, only away from the traffic. When they reached the square, the rain had thinned to a silver mist.
“I think this is my turn,” he said. Mara nodded. He crossed beneath the plane trees, bicycle rolling smoothly beside him. She continued on the unfamiliar street, aware of the damp handkerchief in her pocket and the afternoon opening a little wider ahead.
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