The Quiet Hours
The quiet hours came and went without recognition. This was there way. They did not wish it, but on occasion they did receive it.
Thomas was an unusual child, born into night, who never really enjoyed frequenting anywhere else. He went to school like others, joked and laughed like others, but whereas they lived to play beneath the sun, skipping and prancing with golden delight, he did not.
Nobody, not even Thomas’ parents, knew he was a nightwalker. When everything stalled, the world turned to midnight, he ventured out. Thomas would climb down his drainpipe, scamper out of the yard and walk along the riverbank that abutted his back garden. He wasn’t scared. Why should he be?
For Thomas, it was all about the moon. Something about the way it quietly hung there shining through the darkness in silver rays and silence just touched him. The moonbeams would glint off his almost white hair, his pale face, his long, white jacket and transfuse him to a creature of spectral proportions. He was never malevolent, not at all, but he did have the odd wicked thought.
Mrs. Sherwood sat at the same window of the same room every single night. She never closed her curtains, and she never wanted to. Since the death of her husband, she’d taken solace in the night in a way only a few ever knew.
She often told people about the ghost boy, how he’d sweep along the riverbank and wave to her. He does it every night she’d say. They didn’t believe her, though. It made her happy to see him because she never received visitors. He was the one thing that kept her tied to reality. He was her shining angel, that child of the quiet hours. Her one reason for living.
Of course, Thomas knew that, too.