One morning - driving to school, mid, almost late, November, early light of day, orange glow from the lights of the houses softening the damp rain that falls as mist around the old wet stones of the village where no one is about and the dreams of many are still asleep in their warm beds – when a chance glance draws attention to the departing vision of a man who seems to carry a tragic past on his shoulders which you can feel in his every handshake; firm yet too firm, there is longing for something unsaid in the way he holds your hand.

There’s an old guy in the village, he lives alone and his brother who also lived in the village died ten years ago.

You never see him with anyone, there doesn’t seem to be a woman in his life. He always smiles, says hello and shakes hands; he’s civil.

He always wears the same raincoat; he needed it today. It was raining, a damp November drizzle, leaves and water falling together, the road a sodden mass.

He was walking down the lane away from the baker’s; he had a morning baguette under his arm.

The lane is empty.

It shares his solitude.