‘Ye know, I think yer getting a bit tired, me lad… writing and writing at yer little desk.’ said the maid, a fat 40-ish woman who never got along with her sons or her husband. Her children joined the army as soon as they could and her spouse died, just after they left. She hated being lonely, especially because she was rather talkative.’Ye should eat more.’
‘I shall be downstairs for supper as soon as I finish this.’ the man answered. He was young but alone. Surprisingly, he never sought for another person’s presence, he never longed for a stranger’s voice. Every day, he used to sit at his desk and write, constantly. No one dared to ask the purpose of his writing. Maybe it was a novel, or an essay. Maybe he enjoyed writing randomly or with a fixed purpose. For everyone or for a single human being.
The maid left the room grumpy while mumbling something about diseases and a spoiled childhood. The man interrupted his literary flow and abandoned his desk. Looked outside the window pane and observed the beauty of his garden. ‘To whom are these delicate flowers dedicated? Their color, their innocence, their subtlety… If I do not deserve this wander, why do they insist on glowing right in front of me?’
‘Sir, ye have a visitor!’ the maid shouted impolitely.