I once visited a Mediterranean island. Every night I took a book onto the balcony and read for a few hours.

Across the street was a restaurant, always busy. A young Greek boy politely greeted every customer. In between, he would pace up and down, lost in his thoughts. I watched him all the time.

My book became my excuse.

One night, the boy stopped his routine and waved. It became a nightly ritual, and I would wave back. And then he started smiling and acknowledging me with a friendly nod. He would get back to his customers, stealing a glance whenever he could. And all the time I had the advantage of watching him from above.

And then he was gone, simply disappeared.

One night, he didn’t appear, nor did he the one after. I enquired about him at the restaurant and a waitress fetched the owner.

He asked if I knew the boy well, and I said I did, sort of.

And then he told me that the boy had been riding home from work on his scooter and collided with a taxi. He had died instantly.

Have you ever grieved for someone you never knew? It is probably worse than grieving for someone you did.

All these years later, I think of that young boy, and in my thoughts, he waves, and he smiles, and he nods and casts furtive glances. Then he turns his back and is gone.