He walked across the snow. The sun had not risen yet. The whiteness of the snow calmed him. Why did he have to be here? Why had he distanced himself from everything? What was he searching for in his solitude? He missed his favorite café and those carefree gatherings with friends, yet he still had not found the strength to return to the city. His own city, or any other city. A city with buses that picked people up and dropped them off. A city crowded with moving shadows that paid no attention to his pain.
Now, in this distant mountainous place, the nightly howls of jackals had become a comfort to him. How could he return to the city and its bus stations when there was no longer a beloved waiting to step off the bus with that magical smile? It was this very city, these very frantic crossings of bodies, that had taken his love away from him. One day she confessed that she had met someone else and left him. Everything had happened so quickly. It was as if, in the city, there was not even enough time for goodbye.
And from that day on, he hated the city. He gave up his apartment and fled without saying goodbye or informing anyone. It was as though the city had killed him, and now he had become a sad and wandering ghost. Now he spoke with objects, insects, animals, the wind, and the rain, while his loneliness grew larger and larger.
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