A girl moved carefully above him. Her movements were graceful, floating above the ground. His hand voluntarily reached out to feel her, and caress the long locks of hair cascading down her back. She turned. A beautiful face with rose petal lips faced him. He leaned forward, dark abysses swelling below his feet. Before he could wrap his arms around the slender body, she blushed, eyes flickered downwards, and started. Like a fish, she slipped out of his too-desired, too-short embrace, smoothly leaving the cage of arms. He watched her run, his own feet unconsciously following her pace, falling just a little behind...almost there...he would wait for her....even if it meant waiting forever.

Morning light shone softly into the tiny room, resting on the dusty surfaces. A heavy, damp odour tinted the wooden walls, mingled with the breath of the person laying serene on the cot in the middle. The breather turned once, emitting a low sigh, before bunching his blankets closer towards his face. Winter chill flooded the general atmosphere, forcing miniscule puffs of white from dry lips. A gust of northern wind stealthily crept in, unseen, but apparently felt from the huddled mass of sheets and pillows. A sneeze.

Old Man Whitfield slowly rose from the mat on the ground, blinking to adjust to the pale dawn. He shivered, thinking about the warm fire he often lit late at night. The thought of the warm flames seemed to wake him up, as he sluggishly, very quietly, got to his feet. Whitfield trudged across the room, staring at his reflection in the cracked mirror on the opposite wall. The wrinkles on his face seemed to carve out a different person than who he was, showing a crueler, older person on the surface. Ignoring his cracking limbs, he pulled on a thick woolen sweater, and pushed open the door.

A long time ago, he walked this same path; but, with a lighter step, and wearing better clothes. His feet squished along the slushy path, winter boots soaking in the melting snow. A breeze rushed past, drilling into his bones. He pulled his cloak closer into him.  

The heavy metal door clanked open, disturbing a bunch of wind chimes hanging near the entrance. Gentle chiming floated towards the wall in the back, where a middle-aged man sat whittling behind a paint-chipped counter. He showed no evidence that he had heard the ringing, or, that he had even cared. The ground around him was littered with wood carvings, some old, some new, some plain, some intricate. Each one had the appearance of a cherished object, as if the carver himself had loved them as much as his own children. Carefully, Old Man Whitfield stepped around the sculptures, and awkwardly stood in front of the counter. The man glanced up briefly, before resuming his work. The older cleared his throat uncomfortably, eyes still focused on the knife in the other’s hands.

“You can speak, I’m listening.”

Old Man Whitfield flinched a little from the sudden words, before starting, “I need you to carve something, please.” His voice came out inaudible and scratchy, rasped due to lack of water. He licked his lips, and repeated it again.

“I could guess that. Just tell me what you need.” How strangely sour the man sounded, like he didn't care an ounce about how much he made, or about his customers. Perhaps it was just him, the near-hermit Old Man Whitfield, living on the very outskirts of the city, poor as anyone could be.

“Just follow this picture here, and try to make it as real and moving as possible.”

The man stopped momentarily to receive the yellowing black and white photograph. He held it close to his face and squinted, before tossing it onto his desk. Whitfield followed the path of the thick paper as it fell onto the wood shavings.

“That’s gonna’ be hard to do ‘cause you want it real as possible, huh?” He could see where this was leading, “So, it’s gonna cost you a bit.”

“And…?” His throat hurt a little from the excessive talking.

“I’d say you’d have to cough up at least, let's say, forty thousand.”

Old Man Whitfield’s eyes widened a bit, before cheerfully answering, “Sure, make it thirty-eight, and it’s a deal!”

“Fine, fine, but you can’t expect the best wood or whatever.” The sour sounding voice was back, “So, when’re you gonna pay?”

The corner of the old man’s mouth twitched slightly before he turned and walked towards the door, rasping, “I’ll give you forty, but you have to use all the best wood and skill you got. As for the money, I’ll get it to you when I’ve got enough. You just don’t worry about that, and make it as alive and real as possible.”  The door closed with a bang.

A woman walked out from behind an arched opening, concealed with a light pink curtain, “You ain’t have to be so rude to him, y’know.”

The carver frowned, as if he didn’t like the thought of what she proposed, slipping his thumb on the blade. He brought his cut finger to his mouth, and sucked leisurely, placing the unfinished wood porpoise on the surface beside him, “Yeah, whatever. He’s half-mad already, so what's the harm?”

“Damn, you know what they say about him, after that woman…” She trailed off, before shaking her head, and sitting down to a tub of potatoes.

“Uh huh, but that's not what I’m concerned about. It’s just weird. A poor old man, from the outskirts of the town, with no modern heating or anything, just strutting into a store, willing to put 40 grand on the table for a little wooden model. Where’s he getting it?”

The woman had already started to peel the potatoes, “I don’t know, and I don’t care. Just get on with your work: I want to buy that new hat in Martin’s Drugstore’s window…”

A gale swished past the concrete buildings.

The old man’s hand stretched out towards the open window, the gentle rays shining through its fluttering curtains. It was a weary hand. A hand that had worked its entire life for a simple meal to eat. A hand that had been cut, and bruised, and broken. A hand that was tired, was old, was wrinkled and pale. A hand that wanted rest. The tube connected to his other arm felt cold; it seemed not to have stopped, still extracting liquid from his flesh. He groaned. It was sore and painful.

A nurse in a white cap walked in, idly tapping a clipboard held to her chest. She stopped at the foot of the bed of the man beside him, and gently felt his forehead, before strutting over to his bed. Her heels made loud clacking noises on the polished floor. Old Man Whitfield pushed himself up immediately.

“You should be good in a minute now, sir. Would you like something to drink?” she chirped, as if she was doing the happiest thing on earth.

“Yes, please. A glass of water, please.” He found himself focusing on her eyes. They were a light blue colour, flecked with specks of hazel, framed with a circle of long lashes. He had seen those same eyes before...a long time ago...on a different girl…

A package lay on the doorstep, envelope almost open, not bothered to be completely closed. The old man bent over and gingerly picked it up. This was the fourth time he had gotten a letter like this.

Old Man Whitfield pushed open the wooden door, and crept back inside. He never needed to lock it, as no one in their right mind would ever think of raiding a house like his. With its rotting walls and cracked windows, it resembled a dumpster more than anything else. Setting the package down, he turned to a stony hole in the wall, and dragged out some large pieces of timber. They were miraculously dry, having survived the harsh blizzard that the season had put them through. Whitfield scratched his whiskery chin, and stumbled back to the bed where the package lay.

Slowly, he unfolded the soggy cardboard edges, taking care not to bend what was inside.

Money.

The envelope was next, “Thank you for your generous contribution to the Blood Research Society! In the package you should expect a sum of-” He didn't bother to finish reading it. Picking up the wad of money, he stood, and shuffled over to a huge jar filled with bills and coins beside his stove. He dumped the contents of it on his pillow, as well as the amount he received in the package. With trembling fingers, he counted it all...one...two...three…

Outside, the sky darkened, swelling red and orange with rage, before gently subsiding into calm blackness. Misty clouds covered the weakly illuminated moon, before being brushed away by the frozen wind.

A single window stood illuminated with light. Behind it, someone was stirring. The old man gazed upwards at the moon, eyes filled with emotions none could understand. He was thinking about her; or, rather, he was thinking about everything. Was it really all worth it? All these years of waiting, patience, and pain. What was to be granted to him now? Old Man Whitfield thought and thought, tears streaming down his wrinkled cheeks. He wanted to say something, though there was no one to listen.

Time passed.

Old Man Whitfield walked through the town, face shining with unmistakable joy. He held a cloth covered object close to his body, whistling and singing with alacrity, brighter than a lark’s. Step after step...the grass parted ways for his foot, kissing it softly as it passed. The sun beat down warmly on his back, soothing it with its rays.

The townspeople watched him, eyes stretched as big as eggs. “What is the matter with him?” they said, “Why would he pay thousands and thousands of dollars for something silly like that?” “The old man’s finally fallen off his rocker.”

However, the old man, himself, smiled.

Moonlight again. The white light softly shone once more into the familiar little cabin, this time silently observing the scene unfolding inside.

Old Man Whitfield gently held the statue to his chest, breathing in through his nose, sobbing at the same time, “It’s been thirty years, Azalea. I’ve waited for you for thirty years. Can I hold you, just once?”

The statue smiled at him with tender affection, indisputable beauty written on her face.