Wearing all black clothing, he approaches me suddenly.

I look up from the ground, where my eyes were trained. It’s quiet now, not many people around. “May I help you?”

His face is cloaked in mystery and a hooded jacket, which is sweeping his feet. A deep, almost growling voice responds, his eyes lit up oddly with joy. “You already have.”

“I’m sorry, what do you-” Before I can finish asking what he’s talking about, the man is out of sight, the glow of the settling sun proving one last glimpse of him – his shadow.


Photo from, by Iwona_Olczyk


Author: tiredmindtypingfingers

Writing about writing and chronic illness, and trying to make something out of it.

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