Pierre trotted through the park listlessly, which he always had to cross when he walked home. He scattered the last leaves that remained from the fall and the rustling under his feet left a smile on his face. He felt cut off from society. How he would have loved to go to a friend and pour his heart out to him. But there was no one there. It wasn't that he didn't know anyone, but Pierre couldn't get through to these people on the personal level he needed, to be able to trust someone. It was easy for him to have some small talk with new acquaintances. He knew just enough about people to greet them and ask a few follow-up questions, like a lengthy conversation that was splitted up into parts. But if the conversation lasted longer than a few minutes, he didn't know what to ask or talk about and they waived goodbye. It was as if he were looking out into the ocean from the deck of a ship and could still see fish and life a few meters below the surface, but underneath there was only cold emptiness and darkness. He wanted to disappear, but what he really wanted was to be found. Someone who wouldn't talk about him behind his back and secretly despise or pity him.
Pierre reached his house and shuffled to the mailbox. He hated the post. Nothing good ever came in the mail. This time there were three letters. The last one was from Claire. He recognized her handwriting. It was neat and curved. No letter was larger than the other. This letter had taken longer to reach him than usual. But even the arrival of her letter did little to brighten up his mood. He shoved the three envelopes unopened into his bag, entered his house and slammed the door shut behind him.