The bench was cold. Indifferent. People walked around him. Sweet fragrances following. He looked up, seeing different colors on people. He was used to this silence. The silence he felt when he saw everything. Everything that belonged, but nothing to him. The bench was all he had. How could anyone know that it was not always like this? He touched the cold bench. The paint was coming off. There was a breeze but the trees did not sway. A dry leaf rolled away on the ground. A little dog hid beneath the bench. Coming upto him, it wagged its tail. Nudging him to move and play, it looked longingly into his eyes. Not Finding a companion, it followed the rolling leaf trying to pin it down. The sun was almost down and the street lights were now switched on. Another day was nearing its end. He walked back. But today, he had a tear running down his left cheek.
The misery of being cold is that the smallest warmth moves you.
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