The heat was unbearable — the air shimmered above the road, the asphalt melting beneath the blazing sun. A lone bus stop stood in the middle of the highway, wavering in the haze like a mirage.
Lisa was walking home from work — tired, irritable, dreaming only of a cold shower.
At the stop sat a young man, about twenty-five. The sun struck his face, his shirt soaked through with sweat. When she approached, he lifted his eyes and said quietly,
— Excuse me… do you have any water?
Lisa had almost a full bottle in her bag. But automatically, she replied,
— No, I’m in a hurry.
He nodded without protest. Just lowered his head and closed his eyes, as if his strength had run out. Lisa turned away, watching the road. The sunlight burned her eyes, sweat trickled down her neck. After a minute, she glanced back — he was still sitting there, motionless.
He’s probably waiting for the bus, she thought, and walked on.
An hour later, lying on her couch at home, she turned on the news. The anchor spoke in a flat, emotionless tone:
“This afternoon, a man was found dead from dehydration on a roadside near the city. According to preliminary reports, he was walking home after his car broke down.”
The screen showed a photo from the scene — the same bus stop, the same backpack, the same young man.
Lisa felt the air vanish from her lungs. She dropped her phone, then grabbed the water bottle from the table and stared at it — full. Cold. Untouched.
That night, she sat on the balcony for a long time, listening to the distant hum of the highway.
And every so often, she could almost hear it again — a quiet voice, barely above a whisper:
“Excuse me… do you have any water?”
