Homeless — Part 1 of 3

Winter didn’t end, but his world has. Is he completely alone? In a world gone cold, what can keep the spark of life shining?

Photo by Jo Jo on Unsplash

It felt like February, but it wasn’t.

The frigid wind bit his exposed fingers as he wrote. The sun was nothing more than a vague disk, high in the sky, hidden behind the thick grey clouds. The pen kept freezing. He blew a little of his precious heat onto it. The pen didn’t like this weather either.

He snorted at his own lunacy. The burst of hot breath reminded him of steam from an old engine in a period drama, and he remembered strange accents, unfamiliar uniforms, and frilly dresses. The pause had been too long. The flow of ink had stopped again.

Writing seemed futile. Like an act of desperation. Why was he doing it? Words wouldn’t make any difference to anything. But it didn’t matter that the words he wrote didn’t make sense. The words helped him hold on to himself. He needed to hold on to as much as he could. The man he used to be. The man he couldn’t be. The man he would never be again.