The Wanderer

The sky was grey with clouds of a passed storm and in one little sleepy village a man sat in it's station. A train rumbled by to the rhythmic sound of the wheels on the rails, white clouds poured from the funnel and drifted in a light breeze to leave the smell of smoke lingering in the air. The man sat on a cold metal bench it's paint peeling off at the edges and the weathered years rusting the exposed iron. The blistering cold wind ate at his skin but,  was no deter from his task he continued as he sow shut his tattered jacket, the discovery of some chair padding he put it to good use insulating his jacket, for the long winter months ahead.

A man dressed in dark clothes wandered up to him, the crack of his shoes on the concrete as he got closer, he leaned over the man looked down his pointed nose and asked, “Do you have a ticket?” He stared at him for several moment before the reply. “No, I do not.” The man's face was pale, his eye's a deep blue in colour and innocent thought and through, the man in dark clothing answered “Then I will have to ask you to leave, but before you go.” He reached into his pocket and extended his hand dropping something into the man's jacket, the man hustled out of the station to go where he pleases , homeless but warm.