The fog encapsules a tiny world, cut off save for the bridge of power lines and a cold asphalt road fading off in the close distance. The broken sidewalk merges with the fog and the trees in the distance become black silhouettes walling in the enclosure. The grass struggles to find a hold in the mud tangled with weeds, as car zip by as if by an afterthought. Lights in pairs of two pierce the fog to revel a steel box on wheels. The only source of constant light flickers, the light bulb of an old lamppost left to rust. In this bleak environment a man stands, smothered by his worn brown overcoat. His chin pressed to his body and his hat covering his eyes. He stands as a man who is waiting, yet has garnered the patience to wait. His watch rings the time, and as a reflex he looks at his wrist. He looks up, and casually lets his hand fall down to the side of his body. He stares into the fog as if to discern a shadow in the distance. He shakes his head loosely and pauses in the act of taking the first step. He waits for a time, almost imperceptible, till he places his foot down in finality and walks off...

A woman forms from the fog, hurriedly walking down the craggy sidewalk. Hands clutching a small hand bag close to her chest, and her eyes darting back and forth in the mist, she stops. A bird cries out a song, chirping a solemn tune. The woman is searching, for who or what; it seems that even she does not know.  After standing secluded under the island cast by the light, she reaches into her purse and withdraws a small watch. She opens the clasp furtively and checks the time.

A car zips by...

The bird stops...

The light goes off...