Only Hope

He stepped out of the apartment building; the first snow was crumbling under his boots as he stopped for a minute to pull on the gloves. It was still cold, causing his breath to come out in puffs of white mist, but he knew it would get warmer by the time he would get to the office, and also that by the time he would be going to the Chinese place for lunch, there will be no remnants of the snow anymore.

It saddened him, because the snow reminded him of home and he... he missed home so much. He missed things he would have never imagined he would. He missed waking up to hear his mother's car pull out and leave. He missed the barking of their dog during the night, keeping him awake. He missed jumping on the spot while waiting for the bus because it was so cold. He missed his father's old records and he missed his mother's food and he even missed the ever-so-nosy woman who lived in the house next to them and caught him making out with his first boyfriend, leaning against her fence.

He shook his head a little, pushing his hands deep in his pockets as he easily ran down the few steps that lead from the building entrance to the pavement. It was strange, he had moved out seven years ago – was it really that long ago? - and he never thought about it until now. He never missed home as much as he did now.

Walking swiftly to the car he fished the car keys out of his pocket. His car was an old Ford, but he couldn't afford getting a new one and he actually developped some sort of love-hate relationship with the broken heating and the remnants of original silver colour of the hood. He opened the door at the driver's side, with a sharp pull because whenever it got colder than 5 Celsius degrees, the door wouldn't open just as easily, and grabbed an ice scraper.

It was red and he smiled a little to himself, because it matched his gloves. It was silly, but it put his attention off the things he missed, and he even started to hum some random melody under his breath, more of the white mist escaping his chapped lips. His gloves were covered with a faint layer of the bits of ice when he moved to clean the side mirror on the driver's side, but then he halted suddenly.

There was a shaky heart drawn in the icing that covered the glass and he bit his lower lip, his hand still raised up slightly.

He didn't have to think about it even for a second, knowing immediately who made the heart.

He had first seen the man few months ago, in July. It was an insanely hot day and there had been the sweat drops sliding down his back as he had walked up to his car. He had just opened the doors to make it possible to exist inside, when he had suddenly heard a clear: “Good morning!”

At first he hadn't reacted because he didn't know anyone here, and people never greeted him like that. But the heavy silence that had followed – it wasn't silent, of course, but it had seemed so to him – had made him turn around.

An old man had been sitting on the bench in front of the same apartment building he lived in, wearing an obviously old and torn, but clean suit, and a hat on his head, smiling warmly at him. He had felt uneasy as he had muttered back a greeting and got in the car.

He had come early to the work that day.

After a month, he had got used to the old man, always sitting on the bench in the old suit and the hat, regardless of the weather. He had even started to like him, in a way. As he enjoyed books he used to read when he was a kid, or the old toy car he always carried with himself for luck.

The old man made was almost like a talisman, something that made him relax and feel comfortable. Something that was there like a part of surrounding, and he never thought about it.

And only now he suddenly understood the old man. Now, that he missed home and his parents and his dog and the annoying neighbour, he did understand.

The old man missed something too. His family, perhaps. He couldn't remember seeing anyone ever talk to the old man. His home, maybe he had moved in here. His job, likely. He was spending the whole days on the bench. His previous life.

The old man missed love.

He understood suddenly that the man loved him, and he didn't care whether he loved him as his son, as his family, as his friend, or as his lover. It didn't matter. He just smiled brightly, and the old man's smile was full of love as he said: “Good morning.”

He threw the ice scraper in the car and shut the door. He walked up to the old man, sitting on the bench next to him. “Good morning,” he replied, and suddenly... suddenly it was okay if he was going to spent a whole day just sitting next to the old man on that bench.

He pulled his gloves off his hands, and then reached out for the old man's hand. It was warm, even though the man wasn't wearing gloves, and his own was freezing cold even though he was. The man squeezed his hand lightly.

They both missed something. But it was okay now, because they weren't alone anymore.