It was a windy evening, like always. But the young man sitting on the park bench at the corner of Cherry Street Lane and Bark Avenue could feel something in the air. Something different. Something about to change.
"There's a wind in the east," he said quietly. "A mist coming in..."
He stopped, and took out a sketchbook and a piece of charcoal, flipping the book to the first page. It was completely blank. The charcoal danced across the page, almost of its own accord, drawing, shading, darkening. A picture began to form, of a young woman with piercing eyes and a mouth that seemed to be perpetually on the edge of smiling, but never really doing it.
"Like some-thing is brewing, about to begin..." he continued, under his breath, bringing down the small black stick across the woman's hair, making it long and just about shining. He finished up, and looked at the whole sketch.
"Only Time knows now what will lie in store," he said musingly. "But I somehow feel that it's happened before..."
The street lights suddenly, inexplicably turned off. Although there was really no reason for it, the young man's mouth curved into a half smile. He closed the sketchbook and carelessly tossed the stick of charcoal over his shoulder. "Hello again," he said in a moderately loud voice.
"Hex." It was a woman's voice. The same woman in his sketch. "Nice of you to turn up."
He didn't look up, almost afraid that she'll see that the smile is turning into a full-out grin. "Ah, I was here long before you. Don't go by that name anymore, by the way. Everyone here calls me Tom."
She laughed a bit, and sat down next to him. "What's a nice boy like you doing in a town like this?"
"Same as you. Keeping an eye out for everyone."
She shook her head. "What makes you think I'm doing that?"
He shrugged. It's what you've always done, he thought but didn't say. "I took a wild guess. I heard you're the nanny for those kids down at Number Seventeen."
"I don't like the word 'nanny'," she said. "It makes me feel old."
"And old is the last word we'd ever use to describe you, McShane."
The old nickname cheered her up, and he could see her visibly relaxing. "Yeah, I'm taking care of them. Not for long, though. Just..."
She stared off into the distance.
"Until the wind changes?" he supplied carefully.
"Yeah." There was a pause. "They're really good kids, you know."
"Jane and Michael. They stop by here sometimes, to chat. What are you teaching them over there, how to make explosives in the comfort of home?"
She punched his arm lightly. "I've moved past that! No, I'm showing them imagination."
He grinned genuinely. "Good for you! They could use a bit of that."
She checked her watch. "I really need to go. They'll need me to tuck them into bed or something rubbish like that."
"Stop by again, won't you?" he asked. "And bring the kids with you. I'm a street artist around here. I could show them some stuff."
"Of course." On an impulse, she leaned over and kissed his cheek. "See you around, Hex.:
"Tom," he corrected irritably, but he really wasn't annoyed.
"You'll always be my little Hexxy," she said in her sing-song way, and made her way down the street. He watched her go, and opened up his sketchbook once more.
"Chim-chimminy, chim-chimminy, chim-chim, cherroo," he sang under his breath as he pulled out another piece of charcoal and added to his picture, giving it an entire new life. "I does what I likes, and I likes what I do..."
The wind swirled in strange and mysterious ways as the door to Number Seventeen Cherry Street closed, shutting the wonderful woman that the man on the street knew so well behind it.