The haunting

I'll never forget the day I first met him. The day he crept silently into my life, cold, immovable, but with inexorable force. The day summer turned into winter, beautiful but cold. The day my eyes were opened to the beautiful but marred picture that the world is.

I met him at midnight. The witching hour, they call it, and aptly is it named. He was lying on his back on the roof of the barn, looking at the stars. The sky was clear, and the moon was full. Earlier he had dropped by the house and asked for permission from my parents to spend the night on their land. A "quiet stranger", my parents had called him, charmed by his silent eloquence.

I watched him from a distance, at first. He made no gesture of acknowledgment, but I knew that he was aware of my presence. He only continued to stare into the sky, his face like stone, as if he was searching for something. So I approached him out of curiosity.

"What are you looking for?" I asked.

He turned and looked at me. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were full of darkness and despair.

"I look for that which cannot be seen." Then he turned his sad eyes back to the sky.

I waited, but he said no more, so I questioned him further.

"What is that which cannot be seen?"

But this time he did not reply. Only his eyes showed that he had heard my question, for teardrops formed at their corners, and one slowly rolled down his stubbly, unshaven cheek.

"I'm sorry," I said softly, surprised and embarrassed. I turned and quietly withdrew, not wanting to add to the emotional suffering that he was obviously going through.

I almost didn't hear his whispered reply.

"Heaven. I'm looking for heaven." The soft whisper floated like a breath of wind in the silent night, wretched and bereft of joy.

The stars twinkled above.