He was sitting on a bench in December after snowfall. White smoke poured from his nostrils and his ears tingled. His hands were buried in his pockets, trapped inside gloves, but the hole at the base of his right thumb made him cold all over in spite of scarf and jacket and other layers.

He was sitting on a bench in December after snowfall, and he couldn't hear anything. But then there was nothing to hear. It was too cold for parents to take their children out, too late for children to come of their own volition, and even the children of nature were burrowed away, sleeping through until warmer days.

He was sitting on a bench in December after snowfall, and he was staring out into the empty, looming darkness. Night was approaching. Soon the stars would be out. But for now it was just the sort of in-between grey dusk without a sun to warm him and without a moon to light his way.

He was sitting on a bench in December after snowfall, breathing. His lungs hurt taking in the heavy air. He should move indoors, but he didn't. He simply sat and breathed. In and out. In and out. In and out again.

He was sitting on a bench in December after snowfall, and he was all alone.

A typical Christmas.