This is a (very!) short story that I wrote after reading “An Old Man’s Winter Night” by one of my favorite poets Robert Frost.
Morning awoke with frost littered upon the grass and silence piercing through the frigid air.
Slow footsteps crunched, a weathered cane trailed a step ahead. The man craned his neck, searching the landscape. It was tousled with wind from the night and misty with fog from the morning. The hills rolled into and over each other, outwards in all directions.
Not a soul was in sight. The February bite stung his face but he carried on walking and walking and walking, what for? Every morning he would wake in the dark, feed the dying embers of the night before, and put his overcoat on. Waking and walking each step he would wait for the sunrise over the bend of the next hill. The light he searched for was dwindling within, it had grown quiet over the years.