...because he was. Old fashions to him, were simply "fashions". As sole proprietor to his small-town empire of dry goods and ice transport, Mr. Thistleton was indeed a rakish chap. He preferred high-sleeved jackets and waistcoats. A bit more flattering, and very forward for the time. His club collared shirt was his chosen aesthetic, as the Arrow Collars of the day were by far too popular. "Well-made of course, but it is merely a phase," he would say to his tailor. The pocket watch he inherited from Woodard Thistleton I, his father, reminded him often that although we created the clock, the clock now dictated our very lives. Time is money, and money is power. Power was merely a byproduct of being the busiest entrepreneur in town. It did have its benefits: that of keeping the finest restaurants' fine foods chilled with his ice and all; the best table in the house was left empty had he wanted to stop in. A tragic accident in his warehouse would leave him no heirs, and a mourning sister. Yet the Thistleton name would live on as a trusted name in the Bird Feed and refrigeration industries, ensuring that history would not forget such a devoted worker.
It has been 4 long months since I have seen your beautiful smile, or heard your sweet voice. It is cold here, and I look forward to making it home to once again feel your tender embrace. I miss our long walks along our plantation, and especially the warmth there. The chill in the night here is the kind that clings to your soul, and never lets you forget the severity of why you are out here. I feel death itself is always near, made apparent by my fallen friends, and the horrors of the battle field. Knowing that you are home, safe and warm, is a thought that I cling to like the last ember on kindling in a dying fire. As the wind rips through my Burberry, I will persevere knowing that there is an end to this war; but more importantly, a beautiful girl anticipating my arrival. The sun may not warm this land, but there is a warmth I feel with you in my thoughts. I miss you dearly, my sweetheart, and will hold you again.
He had much to be joyful about. Much to do, staying occupied. Keeping his mind off of it. But also there was sorrow. He had given himself fully; had been so willing to try once more, but to no avail. It was not for lack of effort, but it didn't work out. So he kept moving forward. Hope would no longer keep him afloat. Work would be his passion. He would bury any pain deep within his long hours spent at the drafting table. I will be a success not out of spite, but because I know I can be, I am, better. The will and the drive to move on had taken him this far, and it would take him further.
She had tossed all of her belongings into a suitcase in a bit of a frenzy. 3 pairs of boots, 2 pairs of jeans (one skinny, dark. another washed, casual.) Countless t-shirts (do they wear t-shirts there?) Her favorite hoody; and finally enough coats to warm not only herself but her neighbors as well. Upon her arrival, cool but comfortable temperatures prevailed. A slight breeze hid her sigh of relief. I'm not out of place, she thought. All is well. Now I can adjust to the easiest part of this journey: learning a new language.