Like some tattered and desperate rebel flag, his dirty, just past the shoulders hair flapped in the wind as he trudged, marking an outpost of character.

His equally dirty boots scraped against the road as he walked, the beat of a tired but hopeful patroller.

An indifferent wind continued to blow, careless of the baker’s—and everyone’s—everyday. The wind had no worries, no cares, and blowed where it will.

The baker walked on.