The wind whispered gently across the scalloped eaves of the town’s finest gingerbread houses. Dusk settled in. Streets that once bustled with pedestrians were now cloaked in shadows. Street lamps glimmered, creating soft pools of yellow light that flickered like fireflies. Out of the quiet came the chirp-chirp-chirp of crickets. A young man on a bicycle rode up to the neighborhood diner. After leaning his bike against the brick building, he combed his hair and straightened his shirt. Gesturing to the counter waitress, he inquired, “I’m looking for a Mr. Morose.” She nodded her head toward an older gentleman in a brown hat at the back of the diner.

The young man walked to the window seat, held out his hand, and said, “I’m Claude Soleil. Pleased to meet you.” The gruff old man grunted and motioned for him to sit. “So you want to rent my room?” grunted Mr. Morose. “Why does a man move from Paris to this sleepy little town?” Claude looked uneasy. “Well, I’m a writer, and I needed a change of scenery.” Mr. Morose raised his eyebrows. “What’s the real reason?” “Everyone knows me there. I have all this pressure to be successful. I need to get away for awhile,” Claude admitted. Mr. Morose considered this, and then with a steadfast gaze, asked, “Are you sure you’re not just running from yourself?”