Once, he would count the days, then the months, then the seasons. Now, he didn’t even bother to count the years. Some days he was wet. Some days he was dry. He’d been hot. He’d been cold. On windy days, he just had to hold on more tightly. Those were really the only differences that mattered.

He had been asked to wait and so he would. Already he had been waiting past memory, what was more time? He would endure — burning sun, freezing rain, biting gales, parching thirst, gnawing hunger — it was just pain. He’d felt pain before, he’d feel it again. No, he had agreed to wait, so wait he shall.

She would, eventually, return.

He had faith.