The Wanderer
He stopped in front of a river, that it's water was gently flowing. He was tired from his countless travels. His long gray hair was disheveled like his beard.
Using his staff as a support, he sat on the ground and placed it beside him, his eternal traveling companion.
He opened the brooch that held the two ends of his cape around his neck, letting the gentle breeze pass through.
The short grass reminded him of his village. Now present only in his memory.
The day was fading, the last rays of the sun was touching his face, gently warming his cheeks.
The traveler took a large, heavy book with a reddish leather cover. From another pocket he pick it up an inkpot and an eagle's feather.
He opened the book near the last pages, where there was nothing written. Then he gently dipped the tip of his quill in the inkwell and began to write the last parts of his journey.
On his last trips he met many people, with exciting stories and some sad stories. When he finished the writing, he closed his eyes and took the opportunity to feel the light breeze on his face along with the sun's rays.
After the ink dried, he closed the book and in the blink of an eye the book turned into ashes and went flying with the wind "Whoever finds this book, may he be as happy as I was writing it and may it encourage him to make his own adventures and tell their own stories" After saying these words, he lay down gently on the grass, and thus left for his new adventure in another place.
