He walked, he existed, he was. That was all he was. He had been here from the beginning and he would be here until the end and beyond. He was neither hated nor loved. Although, people often thought such things about him.
It was a morning in mid autumn. In a small house on the corner of 56th and 3rd.
He made his way up the sunbathed brick. His gait neither slow nor fast.
He came upon her in her attic as she looked out the tiny window upon the golden world below, a small smile crossing her soft, fair features. The gold reflected off her hair.
He was never sad. It was a good thing too.
He approached her with an outstretched hand, and tenderly touched her arm.
She slowly turned her head, a single tear sliding down her cheek.
She looked at him.
His hand fell limply to his side. No one had ever looked at him before.
She raised her hand until it was level with his cheek, and she reached out to touch him. but of course, her hand met with nothing.
She ticked her head to the side ever so slightly, all the while looking directly into his eyes. Then she sighed and strode right through him. Her batted eyelash the only sign that she felt him.
He, still in the attic, watched her as she strolled down the street and eventually out of view. The autumn leaves blowing in the wind, haloing her head.
He understood why she smiled when she stood at this window.
YOU ARE READING
On the corner of 56th and 3rd
Short StoryShe was everything he was not, or could ever hope to be. But being able to see her eyes meet his was enough.
