The old man.

I met an old man with a castaway’s beard and a toughened leather jacket. Had it not been a different colour from his reddened skin, it would have been difficult to separate the layers.

His eyes gleamed almost joyfully as he met my stare.

A fraction of a second, I walked past and he slowly clamped his fist shut with his thumb pointed straight up, skywards.

I smiled and plodded on.

No words passed between us in that short second. Yet those wrinkles etched into his old skin had stories to tell.


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