The winner of the city marathon crossed the finish line a little after two hours, and soon the crowds drifted home. The crews started stacking the barriers and rolling up the banners. But at seven in the evening, Hana was still out on the course. She was over sixty, and she was the very last runner. She was running for her late husband, who had always told her, "Finish, whatever the time," and she had no intention of stopping now.
An old member of the crew refused to take down the finish tape, however much the others grumbled. Slowly, a few people gathered: cleaners with their brooms, medics with their bags, a handful of spectators who had not gone home. They lined the last hundred meters and held up their phone lights. Hana came around the corner, her breath loud, her legs shaking, and ran through the small corridor of light, and crossed the line in the dark while about twenty people applauded. "Thank you for waiting," she said.