He clasped his arms around his body as he stumbled along, almost as if he would be blown away by the wind if he did otherwise. The grass crunched quietly below his feet as he progressed silently through the towering corn stalks in the great expanse of field, the man occasionally muttering to himself as he trod through small bubbling patches of mud on the ground below.

As he coughed quietly in the drizzling mist of the air around him, he saw the corn stalks decreasing and his destination fading into view on the horizon; a wooden house of negligible size, two floors, seemingly as ancient as the first dawn. Constructed of creaking, rotting wood, it had but a few worn steps for it’s entrance; an entrance which the man hastily passed through, slamming the old oak door behind him as he headed towards a decaying armchair.

He sat now without comment nor company in a house battered by the harsh winds of many winters and cruel heat of many summers, causing many of its walls to be cracked and ice-cold. The name he bore on his being, reluctantly, was Timothy Richardson; a name given to him by a God in which he no longer believed. A man without faith or hope, he was cold and aloof in his demeanour, purposefully retreating from any social gatherings offered by the nearby village; a fate befallen to him by the departure of his beloved wife, many moons ago.

His hands were cracked and worn by the long passage of time, and his face was set like an immovable boulder; yet despite all this, his voice was as faint and pale as a dying wind. He did little with his spare time but sit on the rotting oak chair on his front porch, staring up into the endless grey expanse of a cloud-filled sky; one that perpetually surrounded his solitary home.

*************************

Today, however, he was sitting inside his house instead, for the faint winter rain was drizzling outside, and the cold water droplets splashing onto his face would interrupt his silent sorrow. Timothy stared mournfully at the ceiling as he wallowed in a pit of despair and desolation, a tiny coal-coloured arachnid making its way across the damp ceiling as the unsettling moan of the disused brick fireplace echoed throughout the room with every drop of rain. A cabinet stood beside it, a cracked grey radio laid upon its table, the battery case open and the batteries within having vacated the premises long ago; time had not been kind to the machinery inside, now rusted and damaged beyond repair.

Soon his sorrows and pains dissolved into a pool of calm joy, as his mind began to fill with pleasurable memories of his past life. Images of his childhood flickered through his eyes, as beautiful meadows awash with sunlight filled his vision. As if watching a blurred and aged video tape, he sat in awe at how spritely and lively he was in his youth, a time that was now but a distant memory. It was at a time such as this that he met the love of his life, Andrea, a woman of incomparable beauty and grace; a woman who loved him until the bitter end, someone who cheered him on and always fought for him when he was weak.

Timothy became a powerful stallion of a man in his life, but only for Andrea keeping him perpetually strong. Her demise soon rushed into his head, and all of the golden memories soon shattered into oblivion. He gritted his teeth, clutched the chair and spat on the ancient floor, sending a small cloud of dust floating up in the air. He lurched as he rose from the chair, before staggering up the creaking staircase in the vacant hallway; then, reaching the master bedroom, stumbling towards a soft, cold bed – a bed far too large for one man alone. The bedsprings let out a dull moan as he collapsed forwards, and tears welled from his wrinkled grey eyes.

*************************

The sun glimmered in the sky like a radiant jewel, illuminating the winding cobblestone streets of the tiny village below. The street was lined with tall stone houses, each built from solemn grey bricks that were heated to a warm glow with the bright midday sun. Children played amidst the streets with all sorts of brightly-coloured toys, a stark contrast to the dull Victorian village they were in; yet it would seem that the village itself was out of place, as a calendar hanging in the window of a nearby shop proudly proclaimed the year as “The Year of Our Lord, 1994”. Several market stalls had been set up alongside the main brick shops, many stalls having been hastily constructed out of a few meagre supplies of wood and cloth. Toys, Foods, Clothes and many other things could be found in the Sunday marketplace; but for the shrivelled and broken heart of Timothy Richardson, the one thing that was nowhere to be found was…happiness.

Which is why, to no surprise, his face did not light up when a small child approached him, skipping merrily down the street. If there was an opposite to “face lit up”, it would be “face darkened” – and the old man’s face darkened as if approached by a great thundercloud, as a pained grimace was etched onto his dry and crusty lips. The child was a petite young girl, donning a frilly pink dress with a small fabric baby chick sown onto the front. Staring up at the old man with twinkling blue eye, she smiled and held an envelope up towards the hunched figure.

“Excuse me, Mister Richardson”, she squeaked, “Please may you like to come to my birthday party? You always seem very sad, so I thought you might like to come and have a nice time!”

The dull elderly figure grunted quietly as he held the envelope between his thumb and forefinger, before abruptly replying “No thanks, dear. I stopped having nice times long ago, and I don’t think even you could bring them back…”

The girl looked crestfallen, simply muttering “Oh…okay” quietly in reply.

The old man stroked her hair apologetically, saying “Sorry, I just…can’t deal with people anymore” as his eyes began watering. The young girl walked away quietly, as Timothy shoved the envelope into his plaid jacket pocket; then, he turned and walked quietly home, stifling the occasional sob on the way.

*************************

Now the sun was slowly descending beyond the horizon, shading the sky a faint skin-tone colour as the clouds floated daintily throughout the evening sky. One would have expected the wall to have shifted uneasily, as an immeasurable amount of time had been spent by old Timothy staring in its direction, his mind blank once more with sorrow and emptiness. All he could do at this moment in time was think of his childhood memories, and of the time that he had spent with Andrea once again to try and fill the void of pain that struck him to his very core. Suddenly he staggered up, struggling over to the nearby cabinet and picking up a photo from the middle shelf; a simple sepia photo of a beautiful young woman with cascading long hair, her heart-warming smile frozen in the grasp of a single photo. Soon, the glass casing that imprisoned so many memories for the elderly man was awash with tears, as he unleashed a barrage of heartfelt sobs from his soul.

As he began shaking the frame heavily in frustration and pain, a small piece of pink paper drifted out from behind it and floated daintily towards the rotting wood floor. Placing the photo back onto the cabinet, the old man picked up the small note and read aloud;

“Dear Timothy,

By the time you read this, I will have long since departed this world. I know that I am the one who always kept you fighting, and that my loss will have caused you great pain and suffering. Though you may face many difficult ordeals in the future, do remember this; I will always love you until the end of time, no matter what, and wherever you are…I am always at your side, ready to give you the strength you so need.

Lovingly yours, Andrea”

Timothy’s tears welled forth like an erupting geyser as his head turned from the note towards the photo; but this time they were tears of joy, for his wife’s undying love had once again restored his faith, hope and strength – three virtues that until now had been buried by the sands of time. Standing up, he wiped away the tears in his eyes and ran upstairs, pulling a small white envelope out of his jacket pocket as he did so. Moments later he was in brightly coloured, freshly-dusted clothes, smiling with the bravado of a man reborn as he hurtled down the stairs and out the front door.

*************************

There was thrice a knock upon the door, shortly answered by a tall Caucasian man with mud-brown hair and a five o’clock shadow. His mouth fell agape in shock when he saw the grinning figure standing in front of him; for it was a man who, secretly, he never thought he would have seen wearing such a joyful expression.

“M-mister Richardson, s-so glad you could m-make it…” was all the man managed to stammer.

Timothy grasped the shocked man’s hand and shook it firmly, causing the man to flinch for a second as he did so.

“Well, why wouldn’t I? It is little Sophia’s birthday, after all! What is she now, six?” Timothy yelled heartily, pulling back his hand quickly.

“Um…she’s seven, actually…” the man replied, looking at his hand as if he had just shook the hand of someone famous.

“Really? Aw, time sure flies, doesn’t it!” Timothy chuckled, before asking “Well, aren’t you going to let me in, lad?”

The man snapped back to reality and smiled, saying “Of course, Mr. Richardson. Right this way.”

Timothy grinned once again as he walked through the front door proclaiming “Please, call me Timothy! Even Timmy, if you like!” – and as the door slowly shut behind him, he said “Now, where’s your little Sophia – I bet she’s dying to see me…”