There was a cottage in a tranquil glade. The glade was located far inside a thick, dense forest, and it was only if you knew where to look that you might see the trail leading out. Appearing from somewhere in the woods behind the house a brook of cool, clear water flowed and gurgled its way past the cottage, disappearing into the thick underbrush just a little to the side of the trail.

The glade itself was a small, open area of verdant green grass that twinkled in the sunbeams; sunbeams that somehow managed to be warm and bright despite the ancient, dark trees that encircled it. Occasionally, a creature of the woods emerged, a rabbit, say, or a deer, to feed on the fresh grass. Rarer still, a larger creature, a bear or wolf, would flit out of the darkness and run across the glade to disappear once again. Sometimes they would stop to rest in the sun for a moment, and an attentive observer would have noticed that they paid no heed to the smaller fauna around them, even in the middle of the winter when they were clearly malnourished and hungry. Even in the middle of winter, the light shone warm and soft on the glade.

The cottage itself was small and basic. The wall curved around in a smooth gradient until it met itself again, forming a round area within. The roof was brownish-yellow thatch, the straw seemingly fresh from the harvest. The walls were weather-worn but carefully maintained, and the marks of repair work spoke of the many, many years its inhabitants had lived there. There were just a few small, round windows, the dim of the inside contrasting with the brightness outside to render any viewing of the contents of the cottage impossible.

Now to the old man, for you would describe him so should you meet him. Above all things, he resonated an air of the turn of many seasons, of history been and gone, and his body carried the toll of these years. Only his eyes retained their youth. His eyes were blue as a tropical, shallow sea, and they shone from within. When he smiled, it was like he was amused by a joke you were not a part of, but his eyes communicated that the joke was not at your expense.

On this morning, this man slowly swung himself out of bed, his legs gradually unbending as far as they could until his feet touched the ground. Using his shaking arms to sit himself up, he sat on the edge of his bed and looked out into the glade through the small, circular window across his room. As he sat, he smiled at the sight of another beautiful day. He remained this way for some time – whether for minutes or hours it was impossible to say, in the timeless glade where he lived. Eventually, however, he lifted himself gently off the bed, forcing his frail body to rise to its feet, and once he had done so he leaned across the small bedside dresser and took up his walking stick. The stick was a plain mahogany one, without decoration. He hobbled out of his small bedroom and into the equally small kitchen.

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It should be noted that though all this seemed to take a painstaking amount of effort, the old man not once seemed troubled. He was a soul without need to rush, a man who knew that what can happen will happen, if you just wait long enough.

The kitchen had just one wooden counter nailed into the wall, next to which a ceramic oven sat, suffusing the cottage with warmth as the coals inside quietly smouldered. The old man turned his head to look at the table, drawn by the smell of the freshly fried eggs and baked bread that sat there waiting for him, next to a steaming mug of tea. Of their maker there was no sign, but the man did not seem surprised by this, and he slowly sat himself down to his breakfast.

He took his time over the light meal, savouring each bite as if it were some rarest of delicacies, instead of the same fare he ate every day. In between each mouthful he reached for his cup, slowly lifting it to his mouth and breathing the steam before taking a sip. He tore the bread into smaller pieces with his hands, and dipped them in the yellow yolk of the eggs.

The meal ended with the man sliding the final piece of bread in gradually expanding circles, soaking up the remains of the yolk that had spilt out onto the plate. With a final gulp of tea, he returned the still steaming mug to the coaster it had rested on throughout the meal, stood up, and slowly made his way to the door to the outside world.

The glade fell silent as the door to the cottage slowly creaked open. The bird song ceased, and even the gentle breeze seemed to die down, as if afraid to rustle the trees. Only the soft sound of the waters of the brook continued. Several small animals raised themselves onto their hind-legs in curiosity, heads turning as they tried to see this rare occurrence. A wolf stood up from where it had been laying at the edge of the glade, and fixed a look on the door, unblinking.

The old man stepped slowly out of the shadows within his house, stick carefully placed with each step ahead. His eyes were fixed directly towards the hidden, overgrown trail, the only possible path out this area. As he advanced, the animal heads turned to follow him. Any that stood in his path would move out of the way, but none retreated further than they needed to. These creatures were not afraid.

The old man stepped through the knotted branches and was swallowed by the forest.