Marcus Blackwell walked out of the coffee shop. It was drizzling on the road. The wind was filled with cold water vapor. Passersby on the road lowered their heads and walked quickly, shrinking their necks and covering their hands to resist the invasion of the late spring cold.
Marcus Blackwell didn't hold an umbrella, nor did he call a taxi. He stood across the street, watching the traffic on the street slowly moving under the traffic lights. Every person and every car had their own direction, but he had no idea where he was going.
After a while he lowered his head, lit a cigarette, and then slowly walked home.
The phone in his pocket kept ringing. It was his assistant driving frantically looking for him. But for some reason, Marcus Blackwell didn't want to talk to anyone at all. It was as if the rain all over the world was a curtain that invisibly separated him from the world around him.
He didn't know how long he had walked. He rested for a while on the side of the road when he felt tired. He stood up and continued walking. Before he knew it, it was getting dark. It took him a whole day to walk from the airport back to the city.
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