There is a man I cross paths with almost every week. I meet him on my street, always oriented in the same direction — that of gravity. Whenever we cross, it’s between eight and eight-thirty in the morning: such is the reliability of Portuguese public transport, I deduce — allow a thirty-minute margin.

He walks with a precise, predictable step, as if following a metronome, his gait rehearsed like music; always decisive. It is clear to me that this man knows where he is and where he is going.

I have seen him collide with various objects. Rubbish bins, an e-scooter abandoned out of place — those that have conquered the world’s cities like a biblical plague — other people. These collisions happen when his cane — which, like a radar, sweeps the path ahead at a rhythm that alternates with his steps — swings, by unfortunate coincidence, to the side opposite the misplaced object. Because I have only ever seen him hit objects that are on this street but do not belong to it.

I do not see him every day; I do not always leave the house between eight and eight-thirty. But I imagine he comes through here every weekday. I have convinced myself I know where he comes from: the street begins at a square with a metro stop and several bus stops. I believe I know where he is going: somewhere near the end of the street there is an association for the blind.

I have never seen him interact with anyone — never ask for help, never excuse himself, never ask to pass. I helped him once, after he fell from a collision with one of those horrible scooters. He did not thank me in words; he touched my arm, and the slight squeeze said thank you. I have also moved scooters, bins, and cardboard boxes out of the middle of the pavement, thinking of him, even after his hour had passed.

I often watch what the people he passes by do. I have seen people leap aside as if fleeing a thorned plant; I have seen people offer help, though I have never seen him accept any, not even to cross the road that meets ours; I have seen people comment, and I have seen people ignore.

Today I crossed paths with this man. Decisive, fast, predictable, as ever, he passed me and my youngest daughter near the start of our short walk between home and school. As ever, I stood admiring him.

From the school’s street, the one that ends in ours, a woman dressed for padel — like some urban tennis player — turned the corner. Like so many others, she held both hands bent at forty-five degrees, joined together around a bright votive tablet — technical devotion to the gods Whats and App, or Tik and Tok. The man, blind, gripped his cane, held it by his chest, and stopped. The woman, blind, kept going and walked into him.