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The sun was just beginning to peek over the grey, medieval buildings, and its golden fingers stretched out, dispersing the early morning mist. The birds sprang from the red tile roofs to sing their melodies, oblivious of their admirer, who sat far below on a half rotten bench, to the edge of the square of weathered stone. His glazed eyes of faded blue, highlighted with streaks of red, looked up in silent admiration from leathered, hanging sockets. He sat, hunched over a steaming cup of coffee which he clutched in spotted hands that were so riddled with arthritis that the fingers could barely make a fist, but stiffened into awkward claws. Looking down now at those claws, the man realised how time had somehow caught him in its relentless jaws along the way. He noted with regret, how the tips of his wrinkled fingers had been gradually stained by the long years of excessive smoking into a grimy yellow that gathered like crust around the nails. The sobering steam of the coffee hit his nostrils, overcoming him with melancholy. For there was a time long ago when he would run across this same square as a child, laughing giddily, with the same scent of freshly crushed coffee beans lingering in his nostrils as he made his way to the village market. The air would buzz with the hustle and bustle, and merchants from all around would call out, assuring passers by that their meat was the leanest or their fabrics the strongest. The memories called to him now like ghostly echoes across the silent square. He was no longer that boy, but a frail apparition whose bent body was withered with decay and whose face was lined with deep ridges and scars that resembled some scorched earth. He looked longingly across the cobbled square, at a local woman, just beginning her daily business and he understood her stare. This place had not changed, but he had. He was merely a stranger now, who the locals recognised but did not bother to talk to. In the 60 years since he had last stepped foot here, the outer world had corrupted him. It was a terrible thing to be treated like a foreign virus in a place that he so yearned to call home again. The sun clawed into the Square and sent a glistening flash from the tears that now trickled softly down his cracked cheek. This would almost certainly be his last visit before life gave its final gift, and he intended to spend it hunched on a bench almost as withered as himself, watching the sun spark the village to life, and listening to the birds sing their early morning harmonies.

     
 
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