the Past

 A tall figure slinks past me on the road. He wears a long tattered robe of grey. His back is bent and he walks with quiet steps. 

I barely notice him as he passes by. He merely slips past without a whisper or word. I turn, wanting to catch him, to speak with him, but he is already years behind. How could he leave so fast?

I run towards him, my feet flying with inhuman speed. I desperately want him to come back. My heart pounds and my feet falter.

I’m running after the Past and I can’t catch up.