My Name is Kao

The next day was rainy. I waited but the old man never showed up. I was disappointed and a little distressed. The two books I had lent him were expensive and I didn’t have much money to spare let alone buy another copy of those books. I thought to myself, what a fool I was to have lent him the books. I should have known better. I slammed shut the book I was translating when I heard a familiar little cough and a tap on my shoulder. It was the old man.
He smiled, shyly and said, “Sorry, but I wanted to finish reading the books before I came. Here, thank you for lending me the books.” Ashamed I muttered a short utterance of nonsense. He sat down and we just sat there, in silence.
I looked at the old man. He was slight in build, strong shoulders and back, but a delicate nature. His fingers were narrow and straight, very fine.
He wore a patched blue sweater. I saw one of his pockets was torn and reached into my bag, pulled out some thread and a needle. I asked him if I could sew up his torn pocket. He gazed at me, his brown eyes looking into mine. Slowly he took off his sweater and said, “I’d be most grateful.”
I stitched up his pocket and handed the sweater back to him. I was complimented on a fine sewing job, with a little chuckle he extended his hand and said, “My name is dead letter Kao.” I gasped as he got up and left.