In a quiet town nestled between hills and silence, there lived a man who had no friend. Not because he was unkind, nor because he spoke too little or too much—but simply, life had woven his path in solitude.
He walked the same streets each morning, nodded to familiar faces, and returned home to a room filled with books and the soft ticking of an old clock. The world moved on, yet he remained—a still figure in a flowing river.
Some say loneliness is emptiness. But for him, it became a space—a canvas where thoughts could breathe, where silence spoke louder than words ever could.
Perhaps one day, someone will sit beside him on that park bench. Until then, he watches the clouds, listens to the wind, and waits—not with sorrow, but with quiet hope.