A woman had been feeding the same pigeon for six whole years. Every morning followed the same rhythm, like an invisible melody accompanying her solitude. The kettle heated slowly, steam rising and mingling with the smell of burnt bread from the night before.
An old robe hung over the chair, like a guardian of silence. On the small plate, a handful of crumbs waited patiently, carefully gathered, like tiny treasures prepared for the moment the bird would arrive.When she stepped onto the balcony, the pigeon was always there.
It perched on the railing, a little hesitant, a little curious, but never leaving. It watched her attentively, as if recognizing her daily presence, as if understanding her need for companionship. It took one step, then another, and began pecking slowly, as if it needed time to feel safe.
Its movements were so deliberate that they resembled a dance practice, a ritual known only to her and the bird.At first, it came whenever it pleased, like all animals, free and unpredictable. Over time, however, it began appearing at exactly the moment she stepped onto the balcony,
as if its internal clock had synchronized with her routine. She observed the subtle beat of its wings, the change in posture when it felt secure, the brief pause before it dropped the first crumb. This moment, every morning, was the same and yet unique, full of a quiet magic that could not be shared with anyone.
The neighbors complained. About the mess, the noise, the little red feathers fluttering here and there and scattering crumbs across their balconies. They put up nets, chased it away, grumbled constantly—but the pigeon always returned. It didn’t approach other balconies,
didn’t sit in the yard where it could be shooed off. It chose only her. As if it understood who waited patiently and who merely saw it as an annoying visitor.The woman lived alone. Her husband had left years ago, leaving her with few memories and a sense of empty companionship.
Her son had made his own life far away, in cities and countries she would never visit. The pigeon became part of her routine—a reason to go out on the balcony, an excuse not to rush, a small celebration every morning. She spoke to it aloud: about the weather, about the sleep she couldn’t get,
about the silence that sometimes felt heavier than noise. The pigeon listened. It didn’t reply, but it stayed, steadfast. Six years. Not a single day missed.Then, one day, it didn’t come. She stepped out as usual, stood on the railing, holding the crumbs in her hand.
Ten minutes. Fifteen. Other pigeons flew around her, but hers did not appear. Her heart froze with a slight worry that quickly became unbearable. Days passed. A week. She didn’t cry. She just waited. The waiting had become a habit, just like its companionship.
Every morning, the same step onto the balcony, the same hand movement, the same silence.Until a neighbor spoke, his voice heavy with guilt:— The pigeon… a car hit it. I thought you should know.She thanked him calmly and returned inside. Her morning suddenly felt empty.
Every crumb in her hand seemed like a sad reminder of its absence. The balcony, once a place of small joy, now felt like an empty scaffold over the neighborhood. Her routine had been broken, but she didn’t abandon it. Instead, she began to notice the little things:
the leaves moving, the shadows of birds on the wall, the motions of the neighbors. And then she realized something important: sometimes it’s not those we feed who wait for us—it’s those who watch us, invisibly, from their windows.A few days later, there was a knock at the door:
— I’m sorry… My father says he used to see you go out on the balcony every day. He’s wondering why he doesn’t see you anymore.The woman took the crumbs and went out to the balcony again. Not for the pigeon. But because she wanted to continue what she had started years ago, to keep the habit alive.
First, other birds came—some seagulls, small sparrows approaching cautiously. And then, a pigeon landed on the railing. She extended her hand, and the bird approached, as if it understood that her heart was full of kindness and patience. The day was reborn, and with it the quiet magic of the small moments that keep us alive.