Hey guys! I'm back! *cheers* Ahem.
And on to the story. I know, it's short, bear with me and my lack of time these days.
There is a man sitting in one of the compartments of the train, peering at the latest Strand through small wire-rimmed glasses perched on a markedly bird-like beak.
If you happen to be one of the more observant passengers, you might notice the suitcase that lay near his feet, with the name of "Sigerson" inscribed on it with careful, painstaking capital letters. Then again, you don't notice this.
The man- Sigerson- keeps reading, brow furrowed, turning pages rapidly. On what you can see is the last page, he freezes, sighs, and mutters something under his breath- a name, perhaps? You can't tell.
He crumples the papers in his fists (What impudence! you think. He could have saved it for his fellow passengers!) and tosses them into the nearest wastepaper-basket. The man- Sigerson- purses his lips and strides out of the compartment, not having noticed you the whole time he had been reading.
You, on the other hand, finally notice something. A few simple words that you can barely make out on the absurdly wrinkled paper, a few simple words that sufficed in order to have a profound impact on the man.
"The best and wisest man I have ever known."
The man walks back in, pauses, tears off that particular page, smooths it out, and stuffs it in his pocket.
You say nothing the entire time, merely wondering.