After a dinner of a stale roll and brown apple, the vagrant stood up to empty his pockets. He made a neat little pile beside his bedroll of his failures, doubts, fears and words unsaid. He stretched, hands on hips, leaning backwards, staring straight up at the twinkling stars, then crawled, fully clothed under the threadbare blanket, and fell asleep, curled around the fire, and unburdened.
The next morning, after breaking camp, he set off, stoop-shouldered and wincing. Walking slowly down the road, taut, tensed, he wondered when he might find somewhere to set his baggage down, but for good.
Prompt courtesy of the Daily Post