The bent figure with the cane was older than the sidewalk, older than the cold concrete buildings that lined the road. The squat brick houses of his childhood had crumbled or been torn down in the ninety years he had been away. His leather bag contained a few necessities including his glasses, a pad of paper, a pencil and a small sharpening knife. Carefully stored in a side pocket lay a tattered drawing of “the tree,” the one that had set him on the path that now finally led back here.
“I do,” she said. “You wouldn’t recognize it. They rebuilt it when I was ten.”