There were many rumors about the man who lived in an old cobblestone house beside the road in Suffolk, England. Many fantasies centered on him, the man against the old iron gate. He wasn’t a queer man, nor was he bitter. He was pleasant, as you passed him calling your greeting.
Many wondered why he stood there through any weather, his gaze fixed intently upon the traffic. Fixing his eyes on you, his gaze would quickly flit away, disappointment written on his face. A rumor was he waited for a woman, possibly she pronounced her love to him, then left, promising to return. However, one glance at his attire told you he merely dressed practically for the weather.
No one knew why he stood there. He had no close friends, he had no acquaintances. He lived a solitary life alone, in his old cobblestone house.