A frail old man sat on a bench, motionless.

In his cupped hands were flowers.

Red flowers.

Red flowers the colour of lipstick and rubies.

Those flowers held memories of joy and happiness, they held memories of distant pleasures.

Memories of her.

But she was gone.

A salty tear spilled onto his cheek, which was crinkled like a shirt that wasn’t ironed.

All around him, people of all ages chattered and laughed, enjoying themselves with not a care in the world.

Hurriedly, he wiped away the tear with the sleeve of his tatty coat, but it was too late.

More tears streamed down his face, turning from a sniffle into a sob.

He held held his head in his hands, covering up his face from everyone around him.

“Excuse me.” Said a small voice.

Surely I’m hallucinating. The old man thought.

The voice came again.

“Excuse me.”

The man looked up, and to his surprise, a young boy no more than five to six was standing in front of him.

He blinked in confusion as the boy opened his mouth to speak.

“My family and I were just having lunch in the park,” the boy waved his hand in the direction of some picnic benches, “and we thought you looked rather lonely. Would you like to join us?”

“I-I couldn’t possibly.” He whispered hoarsely.

“Of course you could.”

Placing his smooth hand in the mans rough ones, he gently pulled the man to his feet.

When the man was standing up, he turned around and placed the flowers on the bench.

Then, hand in hand, the pair walked over to one of the picnic benches stacked with food.

Chatting away, the little boy was unaware to the difference he was making to the mans life, to the mans hope, to the mans spirit.

One by one, the boy introduced the man to his family, making him feel like a part of something again.

He laughed again, he smiled again, he lived again.

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