The man lived a pattern, day in day out, he walked at 7 in the morning, with his stick, a different stick every day. He knew this because he woke up every morning as the man left an invisible but audible path accross the snow filled valley.
Crunch, crunch, crunch. I could hear the snow depressed a short way off, far enough to get up from my office and walk to the window in the dining room, just in time to see the man turn as he turned the corner, through the frost covered window, behind the tithe barn, pixilated by the ice crystals. I never saw him beyond the corner, and only really for about 20 metres before the corner, a snap shot in time, every day, day after day.
A half hour later I’d stand outside with a coffee and cigarette, scuffing the mud on the yard floor, check my twitter account, and would move the stick he’d left to the log shed; good kindling. And then I’d get to work, at my laptop back in the office.
The next day was the same.
He crunched through the snow, approaching the Tithe barn, glanced up at the window where he detected movement through the frosted glass, but turned away and walked round the corner, leaving his stick leaning up against the downpipe; he’d pick it up tomorrow, maybe…