She sometimes went to the park during her lunch break, her routine was to find a bench so she could sit down and read the latest letter from Nicholas.

They had met about six months ago, talked and kept walking through the city streets long into the night. And when he told her that his job was taking him to work on a hospital construction project in Uganda he promised he would write to her regularly. As time went by, she began to really look forward to the letters. This was partly due to their physical presence. The look of the stamps and the marks on the envelope. These signified the long journey it had made, leaving his hand and eventually reaching hers. So, whenever a letter arrived she made a point of deciding how she would savour the moment of opening it and reading it, and perhaps re-reading it.

Nicholas would often write about the things he was getting up to and the challenges of the work but he would also tell her how much he was missing her. At first, she was enthralled by his correspondence but as time went on, she felt a niggling doubt. Perhaps it was the contrast between his time in Africa and her own life which frankly had become routine and uneventful. She realised that these letters had become such a highlight because frankly there was so little else of note in her life. As if much of her time was spent waiting for news from him.

She was holding the letter as she walked through the park looking for a bench where she could open it and have her lunch. There was a curve in the path and set back from it was an olive tree , the only one in the park. Sitting, his back to it, was a man with a long beard, straggling hair wearing a ragged greatcoat. His face was weathered, and she took him to be one of the homeless people you would sometimes see in the park. She hesitated and then reached into her bag and pulled out the sandwich she had brought for her lunch. She left the path, walked over to him and held it out to him. He stared at her and she was surprised at the luminosity and youth of his blue eyes. He leaned forward, wincing as he did and took the sandwich from her. I am nearly home he said, and this will help me on my way. She nodded, have you been away? She felt as if she should have some sort of conversation with him. I have had some adventures you would not believe, he said. Indiana Jones has nothing on me. He nodded at the letter, are you expecting news? An admirer, she said. Ah, well make sure you wait for him. When I returned, I found that my Penny was gone for good, she didn’t have it in her, to wait for me.

She watched him begin to eat the sandwich and then frowned and sighed heavily. Maybe, she thought, you could have spent less time adventuring and more time at home with her. Maybe, she grew tired of sitting by the window at home, or eating alone, or dreading the weekend. Maybe, you are not as brave as you think you are.

The man continued to eat the sandwich but then something in the sky caught his eye. A heron began to swoop down from behind them. It descended, circled, and then turned and came towards them. Its wingspan was massive, and it seemed as though it had emerged from an era long passed.

The man spoke as he ate. In Greek myth, he said, the heron was a messenger from the gods. In Homer’s Iliad, the god, Pallas Athena sent a heron to the wandering hero, Odysseus to let him know she was watching over him.  

After she left the man and began to walk towards the gates of the park the heron passed overhead. It was low enough for her to hear the slow beating of its wings.