Allen started walking further towards the park after giving the driver instructions. As he moved, people hurried past him. He noticed an office worker running by with a suitcase in hand.
From one of the nearby stores, an old man walked toward him. Seeing this, Allen slowed down and stopped. The man wore a Bowler hat and carried several others of different colors—velvet blue, brown, black, and a deep red. He was dressed in a uniform from Max Hat Store, with the slogan stitched across the chest: "A hat that matches your personality."
His face was wrinkled, and there was a slight hunch in his back. He wore old cloth shoes and walked with a cane—likely made from cheap wood, Allen guessed. On his right wrist, an old watch sat with scratched glass that made it difficult to read the time, and the leather band was worn and cracked.
The man stopped in front of Allen.
"Son," he said, his voice rough but gentle, "would you like to try some hats?"
"No, sir, thank you," Allen replied politely. Then, after a pause, he asked, "But may I ask—why are you working at your age?"
The old man smiled faintly, though sadness tinged his voice. "I needed money for my wife's medicine. We don't have children, and our relatives turned me down. I don't blame them—who would lend money to an old man with no steady income? While I was searching for work, the owner of Max took pity on me. He said if I could sell some hats for the store, he'd give me a small commission."
Allen felt a deep respect rising inside him. Quietly, he reached into his wallet, pulled out a few bills, and tried to offer the man two hundred-dollar notes.
The man raised a hand and gently refused. "Let me have some dignity, son," he said firmly. "I'll earn through my effort."
Those words struck Allen deeply.
He asked, "How much commission do you get on each Bowler hat?"
"Four dollars," the old man replied. "If I can sell ten, it'll be enough for her medicine."
"And how many hats do you have with you?"
"Twenty."
Allen picked up a blue-colored one. The old man quickly brought out a small rectangular mirror from his bag—about the size of a clipboard.
"Here, son. Try it on."
Allen glanced at his reflection. His slicked-back black hair, clean-shaven sharp jawline, thick eyebrows, and blue eyes looked even more distinct under the hat. His shirt, a deep ocean blue, had a horse logo stitched on the right upper pocket. He placed the hat on and smiled.
"I like this one," he said.
Just then, the store owner came outside.
"I gave you a chance, old sir," he said curtly. "But you haven't sold even one hat. I need to close the store now. It's getting late."
Allen turned to him. "The commission offer you made—does it still stand?"
The owner nodded. "Yes, it does."
Allen said, "I'll take all the Bowler hats that fit me—and twenty more in different colors. Have them delivered to this address." He handed over a card.
"How much for one?" Allen asked.
"Fifty dollars each," the owner replied.
"Is that including the commission, or will you pay him from this amount?"
"I'll pay from it."
Allen nodded. He handed the owner the full payment for forty hats, then gave the old man one hundred sixty dollars—his commission. The old man's hands trembled as he accepted it.
"Thank you," he whispered. Then he gently held Allen's hand and looked into his eyes.
"But son... let go of your sorrow. I can see it in them."
Allen paused. For a moment, he said nothing. He simply gave a faint smile and nodded.
Then, turning toward the park, he walked away.