There was even a word for it... it began with an 's', he presumed. Ah, yes. Sonder. Far more more than the word, though, it was what the word described that he sought.
Sommersby kept walking, for lack of a pleasant enough coffee shop. Perhaps it was the day's weather or his mood, both of which were grey, but none seemed to appeal to him, and so he set his destination to Landon bridge instead. The pier just beside was close to a decent café, and besides - he wanted to walk. Sonder. He turned it over in his head. The first time he'd heard of it, he'd been interested almost immediately. 'The realization', it meant, 'that every stranger you pass has as much of a complex, and intricate life as you do'. He'd been trying to experience it ever since, observing every passing man and woman with the closest of attention, trying to make sense of every gesture, and word. So far, he'd gotten nowhere.
Perhaps, he thought, now passing the row of streetlamps opposite the bank; perhaps the clue was in the definition, if it could be trusted. 'A realization', it had said. Perhaps, he wasn't meant to be trying. He tried to suddenly stop, and found it was harder than suddenly starting. It was like trying not to think of a bear after telling yourself not to. Simply thinking about not doing it made him think about it all the more. He shifted his thoughts to canal he now walked beside. A pebble he kicked loose rolled down the embankment, and knocked on the side of a barge. It looked like it was going to rain.
He'd made good time to the café by the pier, and was waiting for the small line that'd stacked up to disperse. He waited by a table for a while, before deciding to step out for a moment. It was still raining, but he didn't mind getting a bit wet. A window across the street was open, and the curtains seemed to be getting frightfully damp - and they were muslin too. The curtains reminded him of his shoes, which he pulled back from the edge of the tarp before they got too wet. He had only been out a minute, before he went back in, to order. As he returned to his place, a blackish mug in his hand, he saw the man on the table beside him. Something about the peculiar way he stirred in his sugar reminded Sommersby of Jerry, a friend of his.
Perhaps that man too, had lost his house, as Victor had. But no, a latchkey hung from his coat pocket. What could have happened, then, if anything at all? Perhaps his motorcar had crashed because he'd heard of the market fall last Thursday, and combined with the horror of maybe having his best cummerbund ruined by the washerwoman, perhaps he'd... Sommersby sat there a very long time.