The day was overcast but warm, the heavy blanket of clouds promising a distant rain. Hob lay back on the red-checkered picnic blanket, looking up at the slow-thrashing leaves of the oak tree above. There were children playing a ways down the park- they had brought with them a tremendous red kite, perhaps hoping the wind would take it to yet unseen heights. The air carried the sound of their laughter.
Hob was full of good food and a healthy amount of wine; he was in no pain, and for discomfort he only felt the itch of a mosquito bite on one ankle, which was nothing. This was, as he often found himself thinking, very much like how he had used to imagine Heaven.
"There, there."
A dozen or so pigeons and doves cooed excitedly around the blanket, flapping their wings and strutting back and forth in their eagerness for a treat.
"There's enough for all of you."
Dream knelt at Hob's side, dressed in a simple black shirt and slacks, the ruby tucked away on a cord about his neck. His white hands held out palmfuls of sunflower seeds, from which the birds plucked happily.
To think- Hob was here, now. This was happening. His life had somehow, impossibly, miraculously, arranged itself just for him to experience this perfect moment. Of all the things he could have been, all the ways his centuries could have gone- this instant was his. And he wouldn't trade it for the world.
The right place, the right time.
Hob didn't think he'd ever get tired of living.