The old janitor.

In the shade of ancient maples, amid the noise of autumn leaves, stood an old janitor, like the last guardian of an unconquered memory. His life, like a long corridor, was strewn with fallen leaves of memories. He carried the weight of long days on his shoulders, and his heart was as tattered as the ancient paving slabs. Every morning he greeted the dawn like an invitation to meet a new day. Sweeping away the last signs of the night, he pulled his broom behind him, as if children, playing hide-and-seek, hid in the jagged corners of the street. From time to time, the sun touched his back, like a gentle touch to an old wound, reminding him that in the evening he would have to hide in the cold silence of the night again. For many years, like raindrops, dripped on his shoulders. He saw how youth and beauty passed, and his own life turned out to be connected with treated sidewalks and swept leaves. As a metaphor for a janitor, he stood at the threshold of life, but never crossed it. And every evening, when night enveloped the city, he returned to his modest room. There, in the neutral silence, he reflected on the transience of time, which flows like water in a stream, taking with it everything that was once alive and beautiful. He was like a star, sparkling in the vastness of the sky, but never having lost its own radiance. And so another autumn passed, and the janitor remained in his place, like a symbol of eternity and passing time. His life was an atmospheric metaphor for all of us, reminding us that even in sad moments you can find beauty and significance in every day, even if it is passed like a sidewalk under his broom.