The weary traveler sat himself upon the lichen crusted rock, casting his gaze down the road as he supped. A few small bites of a few small biscuits, and a sigh like satisfaction; a dreamy expression was on his face then as he considered the winding path ahead.
It was not long, but then again, time seems to pause in such moments, that a fellow traveler came up the way the weary traveler would go.
“What-ho!” said the lounging man upon his rock, putting just enough force into his voice that he expected to be heard, but not enough to disturb the repose he enjoyed.
Nonetheless, he found his repose perturbed, if only moderately, by this stranger’s brisk and uninterrupted march. No sign was exchanged or offered; no note of friendliness nor even mark of haughty indignation; his pace did not increase nor did he turn his head away as if he did not see. He simply did not take any notice of the traveler, offering not even the least signs of someone intentionally not noticing.
Our traveler felt like one in the presence of a shade; a coldness swept over him, though there was no breeze save for the little movement of air as the stranger passed near to him. He could, he thought afterward, have reached out then to touch—but further reflection told him that such ideas were fanciful. He was too much in the spell of the thing to have moved.
It was not an unpleasant fear to fear, and he let the idea play like a dirge in the background of his thoughts as the stranger, never stopping, never turning his head, never even slowing down for one step, disappeared around the next bend.
He got off his rock and continued on his way.
Tale Told 