Chapter 1, Post 1: The Man Who Does Not Exist

The blackness of the predawn night sat on the roof of the mountain, a leaden cloak undisturbed by earth or man or unholy beast. The dark made it impossible to see the slender gray of the mountain path, but the man, if man he was, navigated every upturned rock and cut in the earth with the knowledge of an aged husband caressing the curves of his wife deep beneath the covers.

How many times had he walked this trail? Thousands? Tens of thousands? Every day at sunrise, for at least a decade, he thought. Then wondered, could it have been longer? Perhaps he could have done the sums, but there was no point in the effort. He and the creaks of time were fast friends; it would do no good to analyze the relationship.