Cool nights like these are when my mind finds peace. The chilly breeze forms a pleasant complement to the small crackling campfire before me.

My stomach gurgles. It's been a few days since I've had more than water and whatever I could find edible in a dumpster. Now, however, after a small-but-filling serving of something styled as "root soup," I'm feeling hungers pull.

I don't ask for seconds. Honestly, I'm not sure why I didn't. After all, it was by chance I stumbled across the old man sitting on a fallen branch before me. Chance that he took pity on an exhausted traveler in the dead of night. Pure luck he was nice rather than one of those crazies that went off the grid back in the '80s.

There was no reason not to trust him here and now an hour later.

I hoped I hadn't offended him.

Funnily enough, he voiced my worry.

Before I could answer, he laughed and waved it off, claiming he understood.

"It's a fucked up world, kid." He said.

Then, just as old people seem to do once they've got a young set of ears to bend, he began to talk.

He told me what it was like growing up in the '60s and '70s. He talked about money and politics and old passions. About being an earnest student with the goal of becoming one of the best lawyers in the country to help many people.

He talked about propaganda and how it worked as an effective fear tactic against the less fortunate. How his faith in his religion was in question when he befriended a gay couple.

"They're good people." He told me after a long sigh. "How could I believe in a god that would punish 'em for being in love? Meeting the one meant for you shouldn't be a sin."

With his silence, I had the chance to ask the question I'd been holding since he first began his story.

"Everything sounds good? How is it that you lost everything and ended up here?"

There was a stretch of silence while he thought. Anyone could tell it was something hard. Of course it was. Why else would someone seemingly so on track with their life end up in the middle of nowhere with naught but a few tools and the multiple layers of clothes on their back?

He took a long swig from the mystery bottle next to him, careful not to spill on his beard and clothes.

"Well," he started carefully. "I met the love of my life in '86."

Oh, man. This poor guy must've gotten fleeced for all he had. To me, that was the only option possible. Right?

Boy was I wrong. This old nomad proceeds to tell me about this whirlwind romance with all the trimmings between himself and a person he said was the boldest and most supportive flame in his life. Someone who pushed and challenged him to be his best.

A romance turned private marriage. All of which would have never come to be were it not for the help from the gay couple he mentioned earlier. Apparently, they had invited him to a "party" of sorts one night and he agreed. He was a very straight-laced youth he explained, so when he arrived at the party, he easily stood out among the party-goers.

"Like a pastor in a preschool!" he laughed.

I didn't want to tell him that held some pretty horrible connotations these days.

Anyway, as soon as his future partner saw him, they immediately bombarded him with questions and teasing. Telling him that he wasn't there to "get a job." It was a party so he should at least act like he's having fun.

Apparently, that's all it took for him to fall in love. Watching this short-haired bold woman talk and act towards him and everyone else present just like they'd already known each other for years was it. His heart was taken then and there and he wasn't keen on getting it back.

Of course, he was a straight shooter. Confident. He knew he wanted to get to know her. Talk with her. He wasn't going to step down until he'd at least taken his chances and asked her out. Yet, his faith was shaken even more.

Confused.

"She looked a little like yourself. Not quite a woman but not a man either. More of..."

"Androgynous." I supplied. "At least I'm trying to be."

"Androgynous..." he chewed on the word for a time. He took another swig of his drink. "Tell me about it, won't you?"

I saw it then when he asked. A twinkle of life and pain reflected in his eyes illuminated by the firelight.

Perhaps I was being presumption but I think I understood then what had happened to him. To his partner. Still, I wasn't about to leave him hanging. So, after a brief pause, I told him what I could about androgyny. About myself as a nonbinary person.

I told him how I'd always felt uncomfortable being perceived as either a man or a woman. That entering restrooms felt like I was trespassing unless it was a family or an all-gender restroom. Using the woods was always an option too.

"Androgyny and nonbinary aren't really mutually exclusive," I told him. "But I guess it is common enough of a thing to see I wouldn't blame you for making that assumption."

"Even so, someone that looks masculine and dresses masculine or someone that looks feminine and dresses feminine can still be nonbinary."

"Is that right? Hmm."

"Yes. How someone chooses to dress doesn't define their gender identity. Not typically anyway. For me, I feel more myself when people can't figure out my gender at first glance. As long as I'm addressed with they and them, I'm satisfied."

"Well, then how could you tell? he asked in a sincere tone.

"You ask," I told him simply.

Looking back, I wonder if I could have said something deep and meaningful but, that's really all there is to it. Isn't it?

He wore a pensive look after I finished speaking. His eyes watered but his expression remained stoic.

Just when I thought that was all, he asked if I thought his partner had been nonbinary.

I gave him a questioning look.

He explained how his partner would feel upset and confused during certain topics or when situations arose. Bodies, Gender roles. Dating norms. How they often avoided mirrors and even their own reflection.

How in their nightly embraces, his partner would mention how they didn't feel quite right but not exactly wrong in their own skin.

How the struggle his partner faced bore into them so deeply and painfully. Yet all he could do is stand by and watch regardless of anything he tried. All his love and support could do nothing to ease his partner's torment. Not even faith could help him.

"I asked myself again that night. Why is this happening to us? This doesn't make any sense. How could it? The teachings of my faith all said the same thing and I couldn't understand it. How could I say god loves us but makes being who we are a sin? He made us."

What a way with words the old man had. Asking a stranger such a question. Still, I was honest with him. I told him I didn't believe in any gods. However, I could understand and relate to his partner's turmoil. Luckily - and thankfully - the world had come a long way since. There were places now that could safely provide help to answer those questions.

But.

I did think it was a safe bet to assume his partner is nonbinary.

His eyes flinched and the corner of his lips twitched upwards as if from years of a force of habit.

I'm not a fan of being right sometimes.

"I'm sorry," I told him. What else could I really say?

"It's alright," he answered gently. "You asked me earlier how I got here when I had everything."

"I did."

"They were my love. My home. After I lost them, I lost everything. How could I help anyone when I couldn't even help the one I loved most?" His face was stoic and his voice even but his eyes were watered with an immeasurable amount of pain. In hindsight, his thoughts were so clear. So obvious. "Now I know what hurt them so much."

We talked a little more after that but the conversation slowly pittered out. I was sleepy and he had other things on his mind.

I woke up sometime later. By the smell of it, the hour was in the early dawn but still sometime before daybreak. Much too dark.

There was more smoke than a campfire and the little camp had already been tidied up. As if just waiting for a pair of hurried hands to take them away.

All that remained was to put out the fire.

Yet I didn't see the old man anywhere. If it hadn't been for the trail of dust and footprints he left, I probably wouldn't have found him

Still, his trail was so clear it was as if he was expecting me to look for him. As if saying "come find me."

Of course, I followed. It's in my nature. I traversed through a dense path uphill, winding through the dark and relying on patches of moonlight peeking through the trees. The trail ended at the top of a cliffside overlooking a particularly dark patch of wilderness. Rushing water could be heard somewhere below where I stood.

It was here where I found the old man standing on the ledge. My movements hadn't been the quietest so surely he must've heard me. He didn't turn. Was he waiting for me to say something or did he simply not care that I was present? Did he want me to see something? A witness to be proof of his life and perhaps leave some sort of impact?

I don't know.

For some reason, I didn't get any closer after noticing him. I just stopped. I could have called out to him but I didn't.

We were strangers that happened to meet, he and I.

I never asked his name and he had never given it. Should anyone ask what he was to me then I could answer: just some dusty nomad.

Nothing more, nothing less.

Perhaps that's why I stood back. Stayed silent.

The old man had found an answer to a question he didn't even know he had after so long.

I couldn't turn away. Maybe I'm projecting but someone had to see this. After being dead to the world for so long, I thought I needed to bear witness to his choice.

His foot hovered over the edge and I wondered if he perhaps changed his mind.

He didn't.

- I wonder sometimes what it was he thought about then. -