In the hushed embrace of the winnowing wind and flowing water, a man sat alone on a bench along the riverbank. His black overcoat fluttered in the breeze, draped loosely across his shoulders. Beneath it, he wore a pressed black suit, white shirt, black tie, and polished shoes. The breeze occasionally revealed a calm and composed expression—like a man deep in conversation with a ghost only he could hear.
This was Edmund Hale, a psychological therapist of great repute. His name was whispered throughout London just for his brilliance.
He often quoted philosophers to his patients.
"You know I once read a book, the book was about a man who was tormented by fate, always at his worst. Even after all this do you know what he said? If not for the hardships in one's life how could one look forward to success."
Today, he watched the river.
"Does time move for all things equally? Or is that, too, a lie we tell ourselves to stay sane?"
"If we could live for another hundred years we would crave to live for 200 years. Human Greed knows no bounds. Indeed it is one of our greatest flaws "
"Can humans exist without purpose? Or is it purpose alone which is keeping us sane?"
He thought these things not with despair, but with curiosity. As if each unanswerable question was a room in a mansion he had yet to explore.
A voice interrupted his reverie.
"Mr. Hale?"
He didn't move.
"You're Edmund Hale, yes? I… I need your help."
Only then did Edmund sit up, eyes gleaming with focus.
"Speak," he said simply. "I have time."