Martin Davies
‘Tell me, merchant,” he said. ‘In all these years you say you’ve had no word. Nothing to give you hope. You ask me to believe that. But why else would you remain here, waiting?”
I felt sorry for him then. Sorry, because for all the cleverness in that sharp face of his, there was something absent, something lost. Somewhere in his forty years he had forgotten how it feels to love.
’I wait here,’ I told him, ‘because this is all I can do.’