I met an old man on a journey one day. I asked him where he was going and he asked me where I had been. I said that I came from my home and now business called me away, he said that he was heading home to stay. He asked where my home was, and I told him my tale. I spoke of a quiet little cottage clustered quietly by a meadow. I spoke of a loving wife and the child I had left behind. He then told me his home was similar to mine. He said he too lived in a cottage, though it was not really a home. He said it sat beside a meadow for many years you know. He said there he would take his rest, but little joy could be found. He said his wife had passed away and his child had long since left. Now he sits alone in his chair, silently waiting on his death. What a sad tale I thought, that the old man should tell. I asked how he came to be in such a state, if he didn't care for me to pry. He looked over at me and I saw something familiar in his eyes. He simply said that he spent a lot of time on the road, often gone for days. That was all he said as we parted our ways. I then looked back to see where he had gone, but all I saw were rustling leaves where I thought the old man had been. I then stopped to pause and think did this really happen, or was it a dream of what could be or might have already been?