I was walking briskly along the sidewalk. It was bitterly cold. About ten centimeters of snow had fallen, but then the freeze set in so hard that walking became almost impossible. I was dressed warmly, wearing a jacket and two sweaters. My legs were still cold—I should have worn sweatpants or pajamas under my jeans, I thought.

I reached an intersection. Cars, streaked with salt and brown-gray slush, crept past one another. The traffic light wasn’t working, blinking red. In all that cold and misery, a beggar stood at the corner, hopping from foot to foot. I thought again how I should have worn pajamas under my jeans—and he seemed to be wearing exactly that. Dirty, torn sneakers. A worn green jacket. In his gloved hands, the fingertips cut off, he held a piece of cardboard that read, almost illegibly: “Unemployed, looking for any work. Honest. Hard-working.”

I hesitated, thinking how best to cross the dangerous street. Probably better to keep going and cross at the next intersection, or somewhere else entirely—but not here.

I was about to move when I noticed him staring at me. I looked back. Even though I was decently dressed, I didn’t have a single coin—only credit cards.

Our eyes met and lingered longer than a casual glance should. I felt awkward and greeted him.

“Good afternoon,” I said, waving toward the clogged intersection. “How’s business?”

He kept staring. Finally, he asked,

“Aren’t you Rosko?”

I was surprised. How did we know each other? I didn’t remember his face—the thick beard left little of it visible. Still, the eyes—blue and watery—were clear. I recognized no one in them.

“Where have we met?” I asked. “Sorry, I can’t remember…”

“No, you don’t know me. We went to the same college.”

“Is that where we met?”

“You published an essay in the college newspaper. I read it then. It changed my life. Your photo was on it. That’s how I remembered you.”

“Oh, that?” I laughed. “That was a stupid piece. Actually, the only one the paper agreed to publish. I don’t think they liked it much. I knew the editor and pushed him to print it. One of my first attempts. I was proud at the time, but in retrospect it was pretty mediocre.”

“Mediocre?” the man exclaimed. “Not at all. That essay changed my life.”

“Really? How exactly?”

“It made me wonder what my life should be. What I really want.”

“Hm…”

“It’s not about chasing hedonism. It’s about trying to discover… something—what truly matters to you. And not stopping, even if it leads to the edge of the world. To have the courage to keep moving forward, again and again. Not to despair if you understand nothing today or tomorrow, but to believe that one day you might. And if not, at least on your deathbed you’ll know you tried. Don’t you remember?”

“I remember, I remember,” I said, details surfacing vaguely. “How exactly did it change your life?”

“Well—how? Look at me! Do you think I studied for this?” He pressed the cardboard under my nose. “No. I studied to be a computer engineer. But your essay made me think. About actions. Do you remember that part?”

“Yes, vaguely.”

“Actions show the way. Not just thinking. I realized I didn’t want to become a programmer, get married, have kids, earn six figures a year. I wanted that only because everyone else wanted it.”

“So what did you want? What did you do?” I asked.

“Well,” he said, stroking his beard, “to have little. To work whatever came my way. To give to others. Like Christ, you know? But without preaching—I’m not good at it, and I don’t want to.”

“And? Did you find it?”

“What?”

“The thing you were searching for.”

He laughed. Then said slowly,

“Maybe. I listen to my heart. It tells me to keep going—with this life. There’s truth in it. And you? Did you find your thing?”

I fell silent for a moment.

“When I wrote that essay, I didn’t think much… or maybe I did, back then. But afterward—I didn’t dare. I didn’t dare follow my own advice. I finished university. Got a job. The small daily things took the wheel and drove the car down a wide, well-worn road. I haven’t thought in years about what I really want, or how to step onto an untrodden path. Now I’m too far along. I don’t know if I’d dare leave my comfort and go somewhere… do something different.”

“And if you did?”

“I don’t know exactly. I’d look for… myself. Without fear of tomorrow. And you? Is it hard?”

“Man, you have no idea! It’s wonderful. Every day is different. Food, clothes—there’s always enough. Not easy, but isn’t that what matters? Life shouldn’t be easy. It should have meaning. Or at least be spent searching for… something. It’s a pity…”

“What’s the pity?”

“You didn’t dare,” he said quietly.

We fell silent. His words hit hard. They made me feel I had lost something—forgotten something important I once meant to do.

Finally, I asked, “Is it really worth it? Here, in this cold, now, homeless—is it worth it?”

He thought, hopping from foot to foot. He slipped onto the roadway, narrowly missing a car. The driver revved angrily as he passed. The man bent down, picked up the cardboard, and said,

“At least I think it’s right.” He paused. “Sometimes I wonder, yes—but I keep going. Wondering is part of that… ‘something.’ Here I am, in this cold, looking for work at an intersection—but the road I’ve walked—was it worth it? Maybe yes, maybe no. One day I’ll know. Maybe tomorrow. What happens then? What happens today? I don’t know. Every day is new. Exciting. Beautiful.”

“When I wrote it… I didn’t know someone would take it seriously. A student essay. If someone had told me someone would take it to heart, I wouldn’t have believed it. One has to be careful what one writes. Apparently, even the most random essay can change a life.”

“Do you still write?” he asked.

“From time to time. Now I think when one writes, he should do it more responsibly than I imagined. I don’t want others to follow my advice the way you did. Sometimes writing is like gymnastics for the mind—you write without thinking whether anyone will take it seriously. Sometimes you scribble fantasies, or things you don’t even believe in—just to keep writing.”

“I guess a person has to be ready—searching—and then even a small thing can change his life. You see, I was ready for a change, and the things you wrote were my own thoughts, wrapped like a gift, handed to me to unwrap and decide what’s worth pursuing. Don’t blame yourself. I chose my fate. It was me, not you—you only gave me the courage to search for some truth. It still slips away, but I keep searching.”

A car stopped beside us. A middle-aged man leaned out.

“Shoveling snow?”

“Yes, boss. A lot or a little—I’ll shovel it.”

“All right. Get in.”

He smiled, walked around the car, and before getting in said,

“Hurry. Life doesn’t wait. Find your thing.”

He waved, and the car drove off. I watched it disappear down the street.

I started home again. What did I actually want from life? Crazy thought. I had a comfortable life. What more?

And yet I kept thinking, feeling a kind of emptiness—a need—like the edge of a knife, much colder than the cold around me.