The man is old.
The itch the cold left behind is taken away by a running of his fingers across his head, and those same fingers reach down and trace someone’s name in the window against the fog the snow had left the evening before.
He laughs like a bottle of aged whiskey. The preciousness of life is there when you feel his presence, look into his eyes or… hear him enjoying the thought of that name.
His fingers brush against the window,
We made it,
He writes and stares at me, before jumping with more energy than he really should have…
And kissing me on the forehead.
Just like always.