He followed the vermiculated path, weaving awkwardly through the forest. Glancing up, thin strips of blue sky exposed themselves every now and then but offered very little light, leaving him to suffer instead in the cool darkness of the woods. The dead leaves on the ground, remnants of the previous autumn, at first a thick, crackling carpet at every step, became more and more sparse, revealing the bare earth beneath and the occasional patch of thick, soft moss. In Oscar's decidedly ill-prepared mind, this signaled one of two things: either he was moving deeper into the forest or nearer its edge. With a relieved sigh at the thinning of the trees ahead and a glimpse of the world beyond, he soon realized it to be the latter.
He emerged in the park, not too far from the hills leading to the cemetery, the place he expected to find himself after an eventful night of somnambulism. The sun had already risen, well on its path across the sky, not yet reaching its zenith, its lording position over the world below--or so Oscar poetically observed, never caring to delve much further into the realm of astronomy. He did, however, once write a novella regarding Ptolemy's imagined machinations of the solar system, in which the planets were moved by spheres and the stars in a solid, fixed firmament beyond all else. The reviews were mixed, and ultimately, it was poorly received, leading to a lifelong resentment, though he fervently denied its existence, for anything related to the field of astronomy.
The park itself was quiet, empty, and without another moment's hesitation, he began the solemn walk home, which was unremarkable in every single way, at least until he reached his house. A girl sat on the front stoop, her backpack propped against her legs. As she saw the figure, still clad in slippers, night shirt, and pajama bottoms, approach, she stood, and the backpack toppled harmlessly to the ground.
He emerged in the park, not too far from the hills leading to the cemetery, the place he expected to find himself after an eventful night of somnambulism. The sun had already risen, well on its path across the sky, not yet reaching its zenith, its lording position over the world below--or so Oscar poetically observed, never caring to delve much further into the realm of astronomy. He did, however, once write a novella regarding Ptolemy's imagined machinations of the solar system, in which the planets were moved by spheres and the stars in a solid, fixed firmament beyond all else. The reviews were mixed, and ultimately, it was poorly received, leading to a lifelong resentment, though he fervently denied its existence, for anything related to the field of astronomy.
The park itself was quiet, empty, and without another moment's hesitation, he began the solemn walk home, which was unremarkable in every single way, at least until he reached his house. A girl sat on the front stoop, her backpack propped against her legs. As she saw the figure, still clad in slippers, night shirt, and pajama bottoms, approach, she stood, and the backpack toppled harmlessly to the ground.
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