In the fresh falling snow, of a lone winter’s night. Moonbeams  falling on the distant little village, stood a man.

Mr. Bloom, to be specific. Arms holding his chest, offering more protection, along with his gray coat. Hunched over, stumbling home after spending few hours in the park.

It was a far and hard trek back to the cottage. Face worn, tears frozen on cheeks. Breath of brandy. A person passed by without a hello, not the time, it might never be again.

 Moving foreword, with a stop for a heavy, wet cough. Just then a light flicked on. Bloom drawn to it like a moth. Looking into the window, It all came to him. This was the home of Mr. Treacher, his former boss.

Treacher, in his big violet chair, sipping tea. Chewing on bread, Bloom mind flashed to his little girls, wondering where in the world is Papa, nervous and starved. Will they eat again ?

A frown dominated Bloom’s mouth. He turned away from the scene. It was to much for his bum ticker. Another couch.

Reaching into his pants pocket, for a rag, but something else was in his hand. A toothy grin grew.

It’s hard to think clearly when it’s thirty eight degrees 

Bloom knocked on the rosewood door.

The reflection on the Razor, showed the moon so elegantly.

Desperate people act on desperate thoughts.

The doorknob turned.

All the words he wanted to scream, burned like hot cole in his throat.

Door open, Treacher face scrunched in confusion

“Bloom...what the...”

It was the first warm meal and good nights rest, his girls had in a while.