I tremble and cower behind the log. The figure floats closer. I try to make out what that noise is; I realize it's the figure ... humming a tune that tickles the back of my heart. I know I've heard the song before, but where? And when? Not that it matters, in the circumstance.
The figure comes closer, into a ray of moonlight. It is a woman, looking around as though she is trying not to notice anything in particular. She is a tortured soul, tortured by her terror of paying attention.
I rise from behind the log and lean upon my cane before stepping closer to her. "Miss," I say, quietly. She jerks her gaze to my face for a split-second and then continues floating around with that look on her face. That is when I recognize her.
I take off my cloak and wrap it around her shoulders, pin it at the front. I whisper to her, "Have patience. Have acceptance. You are loved."
I turn and walk home. I open the heavy chest at the foot of my bed and take out the old cloak, the one that has been restitched and mended and patched so often that you cannot even tell what it originally looked like. I gently stroke the cloth in memory of a time long gone. I am old now, I have done my duty to the world, to myself.