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And then, one cold morning a week later, the stranger strolled down the steps from his room, bag in hand, and headed for the train station. The town loafers, holding court in their chairs in front of the saloon, immediately took notice. But the stranger did not even deliver a farewell nod. He stood as the train arrived, his breath visible in the chill, and turned to face the main street of the little town. He took one last look, sighed deeply as if giving vent to some deep inner regret, squared his shoulders, and stepped onto the train.
