Alone in the City

Silently, the moon drifts over the starlit sky. A sounding siren echoes between the towering skyscrapers. A collage of sound runs through the electric city: music, laughter, shouting, singing, car brakes screeching, trees whispering.

Sitting on the street corner, a middle-aged man - with an unshaven face and holes in his seventies Converse - begs, pleads in desperation for another twenty pence; people, eager to find the next pub that will fuel their thirst, do not spare him a thought.

Times passes him tauntingly by, as the night light continues to brighten. He has found himself here, in this very spot, with these very people, and these very cars, every stolen night from the beginning of this new life he is living in. His heart pounds in his throat as faint memories of his previous dream-life creep over him, the reality of which seem far from a possibility.

Rising from his personally-designated place on the cold pavement, the man straightens his weather-beaten Barbour coat. Purposefully, he makes his way to the block of public toilets at the opposite end of the street.

He briefly glances at the unfamiliar reflection in the distorted mirror as he shoves open the heavy door. The man removes a passport-sized photograph of a young girl from his dark leather wallet and places it on the edge of the sink. Closing his eyes tightly, he inhales. Releasing his breath, the man allows a single tear to fall and opens his eyes to face himself.

Grace would have been seven today.