The cottage had become a stark grey haunt on the wild and barren moors. It wasn’t always this way. Once upon a time, when the occupant had cared for its upkeep, it had been a brilliant white with a well-kept golden thatch. But as the years passed, the occupant became complacent with the upkeep of the cottage and let it fall into disrepair along with himself.
The elements were none too kind on the dwelling either. Daily rainfall and wind that swept across the moors gradually took their toll on the virgin white walls of the cottage and thatched roof. Large flakes of chipped paint lay scattered around the base of the cracked corners, and any paint that remained was gradually being washed away and running like a slow-flowing chalky river across the gravelled garden. The only colour to be seen were the clumps of purple heather that grew in a haphazard fashion around the four corners of the property. Parts of the thatched roof, which had once been as yellow as honey, had begun to rot and fall in on itself.
Inside the home—if you could even call it that—sat a weather-worn man close to a slumbering fire. He was dozing and oblivious to the fierce wind that was howling outside. But the man could only remain unaware for so long. Whenever the opportunity presented itself, the wind would surge down the chimney to remind the old man of its presence and how his four walls could only do so much to protect him from the cold that waited outside. The wind continued in its efforts to thwart the old man’s attempt at rest by rattling the wooden shutters on either side of the cottage. When it was feeling particularly vindictive, it would seek out the ever-growing cracks along the base of the cottage and force itself up through the aged floorboards that lined the cottage. The floorboards would vibrate violently and, as a result, would cause the stove door to fall open with a heavy bang.
Charles awoke to the stove door banging and groaned in time with the leather chair he slept on. He shivered and grasped for a patched blanket that had fallen to the floor. When he realised it wasn’t there, he eyed the slumbering coals of the dwindling fire. He watched as they burned a fierce red before turning to ash and collapsing in a hot heap.
A coal bucket lay to the left of the fire, but it contained nothing substantial to give it life again. Charles sighed. He knew he would have to venture outside if he wanted to refill the bucket and ensure heat for the night ahead.
Pops and clicks sounded as Charles’ old bones announced their protests at having to continually support his wiry frame. As he got to his feet, flakes of leather from the chair fell slowly off him and floated to the ground. Charles didn’t notice; the floor was strewn about with unwashed dishes, empty cans, and dirty clothing. He reached for an overly large coat and flung it over himself before reaching for the coal bucket. Charles turned to leave, but not before he threw the remaining coaldust over the fire and watched and felt it radiate a burst of lethargic heat.
Outside the wind unleashed its full fury. It roared through the silence and penetrated the wrinkles that held together Charles’ aged face. He hobbled towards the coal shed as quickly as his old bones and the unrelenting wind would allow. Gravel crunched underfoot and Charles felt each jagged stone through the soles of his thin boots. He grimaced in pain as each footfall brought about a stabbing sensation that ran halfway up his legs and gathered behind his knees.
When Charles reached the coal shed, he muttered a curse to himself. The door was warped which meant that he would need two hands to push it inward. He placed the bucket on the ground, pinched it between his legs, and shoved it hard. The rusted hinges groaned unhappily. Charles shoved again. It was only after the third attempt that the door gave a muted thump as it swung open and came to a slow stop against the inner wall of the shed.
The shed was filled with darkness. In the left-hand corner was a pile of coal. It looked pale in comparison to the surrounding gloom. Charles took the bucket by its handle and base and, with one motion, scooped up a full load. With the desired coal now in hand, Charles hobbled back in a lopsided manner to his cottage. The howling wind didn’t make this easy for him. More than once it tried to topple him over in a malicious attempt to relinquish him of his prized coal.
The front door slammed closed. Charles let out a sigh of relief as he pushed his back against it to force out a knot that had formed at the base of his back from his uneven journey across the yard. He didn’t take a moment to relax and eyed up the fire; in one staggered leap, he was over and bent before the dwindling fire. He took a handful of coal and spread it evenly over the fire grate. The remnants of the previous fire, in the form of heated ash, ate away at the base of the fresh coals and gave birth to new flames that flickered with purpose.
After the bitterness of outside, the fresh heat was welcomed by Charles. A thought stirred in his mind and almost had his attention when he remembered the heavy coat he was wearing. He heaved it off and flung it back over a kitchen chair.
Satisfied that the fire was in no danger of going out, Charles removed himself from the heat of the fire and now stood looking out a window. It was getting duller. The lamps would have to be lit soon. A dark cloud had appeared on the horizon and was moving quickly towards his home. The hulking mass dipped sluggishly in its centre from its watery load and was just waiting to burst. Specks of rain splattered against the windowpane in dull thuds and the grey gravel took on a darker hue.
Charles turned away as the wind picked up and carried a hefty load of rain and flung itself against the side of his cottage. He felt that side of his home cool momentarily as the wet applause soaked the outside wall. Without fail, the rain began to seep through the worn thatch and drop slowly and heavily into well-placed buckets that dotted the cottage floor.
Charles felt his stomach rumble in time with the chime of a small clock on his mantelpiece that announced it was supper time. From a cupboard above his black stove, he took some tinder and placed it beneath two rings. Next, he took his tea kettle and filled it halfway. When it was in place, he lit the tinder with a match and closed the stove door. From his fridge, he removed a cold cut of beef and a can of baked beans. He threw the beef and beans into a small pot and left them on the stove to heat up. Rather than place the heated beans and beef on a plate when they were done, Charles opted to eat straight from the pot. He scooped up the sloppy excuse of a meal and, between messy mouthfuls, washed it down with slurps of bitter tea.
When Charles had finished his meal, he left the pot and cup to soak in the sink. He would clean up in the morning. He didn’t have to worry about anyone pestering him to do it there and then since he lived alone.
As he sat at the kitchen table with his head cupped in his hands, he became aware of how empty his home was. His own voice sounded odd to him whenever he spoke allowed to himself. He realised he couldn’t remember the last time he had a conversation with anyone. Sure, he had bland exchanges with those who worked down in the village, about 10 miles south of his home. These exchanges were just simple: “How are you?” or “Awful weather we’re having, eh?” But that was enough for him and had been for the last twenty years.
There had been a time when he wasn’t so isolated, a time when he had a family and friends—even a wife. But as some relationships are wanting to go…well, they didn’t last for Charles.
He tried to mend them when they went wrong, and that worked for a time, but old wounds have a habit of not fully healing and are just waiting to burst open at the merest slight.
When his marriage came to an end, he withdrew from those “close” to him. Those who knew him well gave him his space with the understanding that intervening would be a breach of his privacy. Weeks turned to months, and months turned to years. Soon, Charles had no one, and no one had Charles.
As Charles sat at the kitchen table, staring into nothing, he thought about those he once knew and how he couldn’t be there for them through any hardships they may have had to endure or enjoy the happy moments that came around occasionally. He let out a sigh and realised he didn’t care anymore. They hadn’t been there for him, so why should he have been there for them? Life was a two-way street, but most people only walked one way.
It was getting late. The sun had set, and the rain had abated. Charles felt a weight on his eyelids and found he couldn’t fight against the force that sought them to close, so he slept.
Charles awoke to the sound of someone knocking on his door. It was firm and had a purpose behind it. He looked at the clock on his mantlepiece: it was 03:00 am—the Devil’s Hour. He knew this time was coming and had actively wished for it over the years. Each time he wished for it a thought rang out saying, “Not yet, not yet…” but now? Now his time had come, and he was thankful for it. Charles got to his feet and found he had no issues like before. He opened the front door and watched as moonlight flooded the room.
Outside all shadows had been obscured—all apart from one. It moved in front of Charles and gestured for him to follow. No words were spoken as they walked across the uneven surface of the rocky landscape; no words were needed. Charles knew what awaited him and was ready and willing for it.
Time had lost all meaning as he walked until he needed to walk no further.
Before him stood a voluminous tree with a thick branch that arched out to the left. Wrapped securely around the branch was a rope with a noose, and beneath that noose was a wooden stool. Charles placed his right foot on it and raised his small frame until both feet rested on it. He let out a long exhale. This was it; this was the end that he knew was always a part of his future since he first settled on the moors.
Charles felt a firm, but caring hand squeeze his shoulder. ‘I know,’ he said in a whisper. ‘I’m ready.’
He stepped off the stool and felt a gentle breeze blow as the noose came down around his neck. Without another thought, Charles closed his eyes in time with the snap that followed.

No one gave a second thought when Charles didn’t come down to the village for his monthly supply run. No one thought to check up on the lone man who lived alone on the moors. They were too caught up in their own affairs and, just like everyone else in time, Charles faded to obscurity all the while swinging left to right.