Behind the curtain.

I saw a shadow slither along the floorboards. Creaking. Quietly, the curtain sighed as it was pushed out of the visitor's way; while I sat at my desk, searching for a face in the dim light. I could tell the figure was an old man by the hunch of his back. As he gradually lowered himself into the chair opposite mine, I was able to see his features. The few visible patches of hair were as white as the first snowfall of winter. The wrinkles in his forehead were past nights full of worry. Now long forgotten. He had eyebrows like lazy clouds drifting above the still, gray waters that were his eyes; still heavy with longing and regret. His mustache reminded me of the long grass on the safari plains, gently swaying with every breath of wind. I couldn't stop staring at his tired, old hands. Clutching a cigarette like a lifeline. They gave the impression of hardships and joyful times, of holding those he's loved and of those he's lost. I didn't know why he was in my office. I didn't care. For some unknown reason, I felt at peace.