The Welcome At the Door

He stood still against the rails of an unfrequented country passage overlooking a deep valley, now engulfed in inky darkness. It was his little world, a world he did not relish, a chaos he was trapped in. The wind wailed though he heard it not nor felt the cold it blew into his face, nor smelled the lavish lavender from the vale below. In his quintessence of non-feeling, his body trembled like an aspen leaf, yet like a bleak icicle, he moved not. His vacant mind never bothered to count the minutes he stood there, staring blankly at the deep vale, never wondered how long he had been motionless, a wasted time. How many hours it has been. As precious moments flew, as sloth dulled his mind except for one fact. She was no more; her death had been quick. The future mattered not for him, time flew, time was finite. He had become as dark as a dead light bulb. Till he looked up the hillside. There was a cabin there. Light poured out of the windows. He knew a fire was roaring, Inside a comely woman went about her chores. He felt hungry. Would she accept him? And a welcome written on the mat outside Inviting him in. He did not hesitate.