Whimper Here

 

“Whimper here” said the old man; his face was old and wrinkled, and covered in hair the colour of freshly fallen snow.

“Whimper here” said the old man, who stood beside his door, the door that shone with light from a place of warmth and welcome.

He hunched over a small wooden cane, holding it firmly in his winkled old hand, his bony fingers clutching it like death itself.

“Whimper here” said the old man as he stared towards me, with eyes that told a thousand stories, the eyes of an untamed tiger bullied behind tall reaching bars.

“Whimper here” said the old man with compassion in his voice that soothed me, and welcomed me into his hut.

“Whimper here” said the old man as I walked closer to his keep, stepping on old stones and what seemed to sound like broken bones.

“Whimper here” said I to the old man, as I held him in my arms, feeling his sadness in my heart, and the loneliness that had consumed him, “whimper here.”