In 1899, about the closing in of a chilly evening in November, I sat at the large wooden window of my house. For years I had been ill in health, accompanied by the common ups and downs of a weak body, but found myself in a good mood this evening. With a cigar in my mouth and a brown, woollen blanket wrapped around my legs, I had been amusing myself for the greater part of the evening watching the street, which was very much crowed during the day. And now in peering through the smoky panes, I was surprised to see new faces in-between the black-dressed gentlemen who hurried to get home after a long day of work.

A man with a neat salt-and-pepper beard and a stern look was standing next to a carriage. The horse in the front appeared to be weary, and so I wondered where it had come from. It was rare to see newcomers in our small village. The latest newcomer was Mr Edward who had opened a tea-dealer's shop, which was still very infrequently visited, ten years ago - but everybody knows, in a general way, that being new means being strange, especially in a community as small as ours.

As the man climbed of the carriage, it was his height which was salient. He was at least 6.2 ft with broad shoulders and strong legs. His youthful appearance, however, didn't reach his face as it was marked by deeply-carved wrinkles. All in all, I estimated his age around forty and two years, but to be honest, I was never told his true age.

At a first glance, it seemed as if he had travelled all alone, but before the man started unpacking his carriage, he went to the front seat and returned with an infant of about five years in his arms. She was sleeping soundly as he carried her into the house, which was already very old and showed splinted wood on the doorframe. The house, you ought to know, had two storeys. On the ground floor was room for a shop while the family had room for themselves on the first. Although it was time-withered, the outside of the house looked snug and comfortable. Sash windows brightened up the house and had been added to it in a fairly symmetrical pattern, whereas the rooftop was covered by slate.

As he returned, he went to the back and started unpacking. He was very fast, I have to admit. As soon as one item of furniture was brought into their house, he reappeared to get the next one, but only when everything was unloaded and the man removed the carriage, I understood why the man was so fast, because the moment the carriage vanished, a boy appeared.

The boy was delicate, with skin as white as chalk and pitch-black hair. To speak plainly, the boy had, in spite of his young age of approximately 12 years, an audacious and virtuous kind of face. Yet when I had observed him for a considerable time, he appeared strangely lost.

The days went on and I soon learnt, the red wooden shop sign revealed the secret, that the man was called Mr Barrow and that he was a clockmaker. His shop windows were equipped with clocks in various sizes, which were all well-manufactured and beautiful in detail. From my window I had the perfect view into the shop and every morning I could see the boy, who always kept a stoic expression, winding all those clocks while his sister was playing with alphabet bricks on the ground. After winding the clocks, he swept the floor, before his father opened the shop.

I cannot just now remember when I first observed that the boy tended to disappear, but he did – quite frequently. Instead of going to school, he was probably too old for school anyway, or running errands, he was hiding. I had needed some time to spot him as he was sitting behind a barrel near the blacksmith's shop with a book on his lap. He was scrunching his eyebrows and pressing his lips into a thin line as he read page after page. You can image how curious I was to discover what the boy was reading, but it remained his secret for a long time.

Approximately an hour later, I was startled by a man screaming – and so was the boy:

'THOMAS, STOP HIDING AND COME HERE! NOW!'

I looked towards the boy who only rolled his eyes and closed his book unwillingly, although not until he had finished the page. He stood up, lifted his head and walked briskly towards his father, the book clutched in his right hand.

'Here I am, father,' he said slowly. I was fortune since the wind carried every word to my window.

'What did you do, boy? You ought to help me in the shop.' The boy only shrugged his shoulders.

'Reading,' he said eventually.

'And what did you read?'

'Words.' The boy crossed his arms. To my surprise, the father copied his posture as he said:

'What's the matter that you read, son? Nobody is interested in a well-read clockmaker. People value skills and commitment, attention to detail and experience.' The father shook his head. 'Come inside and let's continue your training. Now!' he said emphatically. The boy followed hesitatingly.

-oo-

Months passed and the weather got warmer, wherefore I left my window open more often. Generally I felt much better in the summer months since the cosy sun rays eased the pain of my old bones. Without the smoky panes, it was easier for me to observe the various people running the street up and down, but my main interest still lay in the boy. I don't know why I was so fascinated by him. I only know that there was something remarkable about his personage.

He still worked hard - winding clocks in the morning, sweeping the ground, and selling clocks in the afternoon, whereas his sister started going to school. Mr Barrow, on the other, was rarely seen in his shop. Rumours said he turned to drinking.

One afternoon, however, I saw the boy not in the shop, but sitting on the ground near my window. As it was his custom, he was reading with a furrowed brow and narrowed eyes. While he rested his chin on his right hand, he clutched the book with his left – apparently completely lost in thoughts.

'How does it come that I never see you smile, boy?' I asked. Obviously my noisiness got the better of me at times. The boy, however, only raised one eyebrow and said coolly, 'One may smile, and smile, and be a villain. So what difference would a smile make?' I laughed.

'Now, I know what you're reading.'

'Good for you!' he raised his head and looked me into his eyes, his chin slightly tucked. 'But now, please be so kind and let me read,' he said, before adding a delayed 'sir.' You can blame my age, but I didn't let up.

'I haven't seen you reading in a while. Busy weeks?'

'Apparently.' He didn't even raise his eyes as he spoke.

'I also haven't seen your father in a while. I hope he isn't in bad health.' The boy sat back and closed his book harshly.

'Your concern is touching, but I can assure you that my father is alive and kicking. I would appreciate it if would mind your own business.' he sneered. For a second I was taken aback by his harshness, but I maintained my composure.

'I'm sorry, I didn't wish to offend you. What's your name by the way?' The boy crossed his arms and looked me directly into the eyes.

'Thomas,' he said after a while, 'Thomas Barrow.'

'It's nice to meet you, Thomas,' I said smiling. Dear reader, I cannot deny it, I liked the boy for whatever reason. And suddenly I had an idea.

'Thomas, do you like to earn some additional money? I know that you already work hard at your father's shop, but maybe…' I trailed off and saw him stiffen, before he vaguely answered, 'It depends.'

'Why don't you come around once a week in order to read to me? Let's say for about an hour? You know, my old eyes cannot make out all those tiny letters, but just as you I'm an admirer of good literature.' As a response he tilted his head, then however he nodded. We quickly arrived at an arrangement, and so the boy visited me once a week.

At first it was not always easy to talk to him, but, with the passage of time, he opened up and I was allowed to get to know him – and I have to admit that he was a smart and humorous young man. His reading was excellent and so was his intellectual grasp. After some time together, he told me about his mother, who had died one year earlier and who'd been the reason why they had changed residence. And he also told be about his father's drinking problem. At the end of the year 1900, I considered him, despise his age, as a friend.

One night, as we finished Romeo and Juliet, he got unusually quiet and with wide eyes he started into space.

'Why do authors always portray love between a man and a woman?' he asked tentatively.

'Well,' I said, 'Love can only be expressed between a man and a woman. This form is natural and desired by God.' I tried to look him into the eyes, but he still peered into distance. 'What else should be portrayed?'

'I don't know,' he shrugged his shoulders, 'What about love between …' he stopped and licked his lips, 'between a man and a man?'

'Between a man and a man?' I echoed, 'Love between a man and a man, if existent, is a terrible sin, young man. If one chooses a man over a woman, he deliberately disobeys and denies God, and that will keep him from the kingdom of God in the end. Do you understand that?' The boy nodded while wringing his hands.

'Who would even read something like this?'

'Don't know,' the boy said in a breathy voice, 'I just… I read about it somewhere and wondered. Thank you for answering my question. I have to go now.' He stood up and aimed at my door.

'Wait!' I grabbed his gelid hand, 'Did I say something wrong?'

'No, no,' he shook his head, 'you were very helpful, but I have to go know.'

'Okay,' I said, 'see you soon.'

'See you soon.'

-oo-

From this day one he visited me quite infrequently. Nevertheless I was glad that he came by to read to me. I was, then, all the more surprised to find out that he'd disappeared one night in 1902, and soon rumours emerged. Some maintained that his father had thrown him out; then again, others said that Thomas had been caught in an indecent act – whatever that means. In the end, nobody knew what had happened and his father had remained silent until his early death.

If I look now at the old shop sign which can still be seen across the street, I'll get sad and I wonder what really happened back then. I've never heard anything from him, and I have to admit, that I haven't opened a book ever since.