He came to the village late at night. He would have gone on walking if his heart hadn’t finally broken. They fed him soup and herbs until he started to feel again. He repaid their compassion with notices. Kind, loving signs that he hoped might comfort others lost like him.
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At the festival, actors, comedians and musicians competed for the attention of the passing crowds, hungry for cultural engorgement. On an otherwise empty bench amongst the buzz sat a dying man reading his last epic poem. It was uncharacteristically short for its form. No one heard his voice petering out.
Bench! Great story, but my heart did leap at the bench!
Herman was hard of hearing. Pretended he heard more than he did. Hoped to get by without anyone noticing. Nodded his head a lot and looked like he understood. Then Harriet moved in. Suddenly. All her clothes and her books. Heard more than he wanted to then; Harriet never quiet.
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