In the forest, the faint shadows of towering, tall trees stand side by side.
There were no longer the sounds of irate vehicles racing down the neighbouring highway or the shouting of children on the playground a few blocks away.
It was difficult to walk in the white, fluffy, deep snow, and his feet were numb from the cold. A man in his early thirties was strolling in the forbidden direction.
Unfortunately, he was drunk, and his head was hung low. While moving ahead of him, he wasn't worried about where he was going.
He had to squint his eyes to make out what was in front of him. When he exhaled, he could see his own breath.
He could hear the crunching of the snow beneath his thick wool boots and spongy socks, as well as the sound of his own breathing.
The wind's faint howling sounds like ghosts invading the city on Halloween. With his half-opened eyes, he observed an old, abandoned, crumbling gate in the distance that was in severe need of a fresh coat of paint.
