He shrouds himself with an old and weathered cloak, concealing his gangly body and giving the illusion that he glides through the frozen fields like a phantom. He carries with him only a lantern—held firmly with emaciated fingers—which falsely shapes his daunted shadow; it has no choice but to quietly follow.
The trees on the horizon know he approaches as they moan and quiver.
They feel his presence.
As do all things that feel uncertainty. As do all things that wither.
He is not anchored by time like the rest of us.
For time simply doesn’t know he exists.
Wow what a way to exist.My sentiments exactly
A fine story on the attributes of Time. Liked it a lot.
loved this story! especially that last line.
This a beautifully crafted story. Creates an amazing visual in my mind.