“Hello,” he says to you, his face darkened by the glare of the sun behind him. Your eyes flit towards the scraggy curls atop his head, swaying gently alongside the summer breeze, and you notice his calm demeanor. “Mind if I take a seat?”
You nod and scoot over. He scrutinizes the blanket-covered ground for but a moment before crouching down, seemingly content with his fleeting examination.
And then there’s silence.
Obviously, you still hear the sounds of the nature that surrounds you: leaves rustling, birds chirping, and the sound of his breath.
It’s a few minutes before he speaks up again.
“My grandma used to come here every other evening,” he says softly, “or that’s what they tell me, at least.”
“And where is she now?” you wince as the words leave your mouth, realising the lack of tact midway. He doesn’t seem to mind, or doesn’t show it if he does.
“Another life, hopefully? I dunno, never knew her.”
“I’m sorry,” you bow your head forward in respect, earning a slight quizzical smile from him.
“For what?” he asks.
You sigh.
“The thought of never having the opportunity to meet a family member is a sad one-”
“-And the fact that they loved you regardless takes the edge off the blade.”
With a pause and a hum, you let the conversation taper off once more. It is through a few idle topics that you test the waters--try and gauge what kind of a man he is.
He’s rather soft-spoken, you realise, and oh so very unique. And when you strain your ears and listen, really listen, you hear the flickering remnants of a dying sun. You hear the all-encompassing warmth juxtaposed with the pain of a million men at war.
Maybe you like his unorthodox approach to life, or maybe you’re just intrigued, but you end up asking him when he’s planning to come here next.
And as the sun sets in front of them, you hear the tangibility of his smile in his response.