Walter Briggs sat on a weathered park bench, his back stiff against the cold iron slats. The air smelled like wet earth and dying leaves, the kind of scent that lingered after an autumn rain. Trees towered above him, their branches skeletal and bare, casting twisted shadows across the empty path. Walter liked this time of year — when the cold kept people indoors and silence took over the world.

His coat, heavy and worn, hung loosely off his broad frame. The leather had darkened with years of grime and weather, but he wouldn’t part with it. His boots, cracked at the soles, pressed firmly against the gravel path. Walter’s fingers fidgeted inside his jacket pocket, playing with an old brass lighter — flick, spark, click — though he hadn’t smoked in years.

The park had once been filled with families. He remembered that much. Parents chasing toddlers, teenagers clustered around picnic tables, old couples feeding pigeons like they had nothing better to do. Now, the playground stood empty, its swings rusted and groaning in the breeze. The wooden picnic tables were damp and warped, forgotten by everyone but the squirrels.

Walter liked it better this way. He wasn’t fond of noise, didn’t care for strangers or their idle conversation. He didn’t need smiles or forced pleasantries. He just wanted space — to sit, to think, to be left alone.

A crow landed nearby, black feathers ruffling as it pecked at something on the ground. Walter watched it without blinking. Birds, he thought, had the right idea — no pointless talk, no awkward goodbyes. They just took what they needed and moved on.

His knee throbbed again, and Walter winced. He shifted in his seat, tugging his coat tighter. The cold gnawed at his bones, but he stayed put. There was no home waiting for him, no fire to warm his hands by.

So Walter just sat there, a grim old man on a forgotten bench, watching the world turn colder — and quietly hoping it would.