The man who went

While he was waiting for the bus at the old bus stop, a curious thought passed his mind. What if "they" would find him? But no, of course "they" wouldn’t. No one knew where he was going - that he was going! No one had asked for him for ages, there was no family he had contact with, except for his old sister once every year. The usual Christmas card, as if proudly confirming, "I still have your address". He had never been much for these kinds of relationships - why just not say if you didn’t have anything in common anymore? Even with family. This strange feeling of having to fake some kind of interest in each other. So why was he thinking someone should be looking for him? But the thought just wouldn’t go away.

The old bus rattled up the narrow road as usual and the doors squeaked open. But the man had never seen the bus driver before, even though he took the bus regularly to the nearest town. Just to keep in touch with life a bit. And there was only one bus. As if "they" had known, "they" had changed the good-natured Willy on purpose for someone totally unknown. Just for today. And the town wasn’t that big that you could hide a newcomer. But now the man climbed the old steps and showed his ticket - his one-way-ticket. The bus driver looked at it with an intense stare through his thick glasses, breathed heavily and then lifted his heavy head slowly to look at the man. "So you are going away," he said as a matter of fact. The man felt a strange premonition of - not danger - but a feeling of the kind that you have when you are being watched by someone who doesn’t wish you well - that creepy feeling of someone’s eyes upon you. "Yes" he said. "I am going away". Then suddenly, the bus driver seemed to lose interest in the man and turned to look ahead. The man put his ticket in his waste pocket of his suit and hurriedly carried his light luggage to a seat all the way in the back - far from the bus driver and from where he could perceive anyone who entered. The bus made a noise like an old man clearing his throat loudly and slowly made its way - away. And the man knew he was not coming back.

He had finally found some kind of happiness. Just to sit and watch the birds in the big old birch tree in the garden surrounding the old family house in the countryside. In the garden full of wild flowers. The animals felt at home here. It was not made up. Just as much as it had to be for him to enjoy the freedom of taking his morning coffee outside, breathing the fresh morning air, slowly starting the day. Then suddenly, after years of quietness, things had changed. The man almost never received any mail - because he never cared for writing himself probably. But on this day there was a letter in his mailbox. It was thin and plain white with no return address on it. His name and address were handwritten - a slanting and bold writing. The man had curiously looked at it, thumbing it, all of a sudden not wanting to open it. There was a foreboding of change. A change he didn’t wish.