He sat there on a bench in the cold morning air, nursing a cup of hot coffee. The park was surreal in the morning like it was from another world and how everything that any body did has a curtain mysticism that tugs on a chord deep inside you.

He lift the coffee to his fair face to fight off the cold and though it did little to fend it off, it comforted him none the less. It reminded him of warm hands that used to keep him warm. Of hands that fend of the cold and intertwines perfectly in between his fingers. Of vague figures in his head that he cant piece together. Of people from a past life that refuses to be forgotten. All of this kept him warm.

He sat there for an hour until a unknown feeling deep inside told him to go home, that he's waiting for nothing. But he told himself "just another hour". So he sat there, his coffee now cold from the morning air.

Then the tugging in his inner chords rang louder, telling him to go home. This time, he followed. He took a cigarette from his pocket, then a lighter. He cupped his hand and lit the cigarette, took a long puff and stood up. Leaves crushing beneath his feet, he leaves.