It was all dark and quiet. He was walking along the streets as usual.
An old man dressed with a big, black coat and a grey cap.
Roaming the streets, day and night, almost invisible with his old-fashioned black and grey-coloured clothes and his small crooked cane. The rumours tell that he had lost his family, friends and home in the war while he was out in the field, fighting for the country.
Unfortunately he was blaming himself for this tragedy and was therefore called “The Unforgiven” by those few people who had noticed his endless wandering. He was getting very old, this man, and it seemed like he was just waiting for his own death. He didn’t care about anything anymore.
It was a cold and rainy night. His coat was soaking wet, but he didn’t care. Suddenly, as he was wandering this night, he heard a scream of help. He looked up and saw a kid stabbing a little girl with a big, sharp knife. The old man ran towards them with a helpless look in his eyes, but the boy noticed him, and vanished behind a corner before the old man got there. The girl was lying on the ground with some knife cuts on her arms and legs. Her eyes were closed and the rain was pouring down on her body. The old man looked around if he could see the boy or anyone else, but the boy was gone and there was no one else in sight. He felt sorry for the poor, little girl and took her up. She was still warm, but he pulled off his black, wet coat and wrapped it around her anyway. Still seeing nobody, he ran away with the little girl in his arms. He ran until he unexpectedly caught sight of a small, dark shelter.