He balls his hands into fists and plunges them deep into his pockets. His thumb rubs the knuckle of his index finger, desperate for some heat to come from the friction. The cold brings tears to his eyes. The mist of his breath lingers - there's no breeze to blow it away. When he inhales he can feel the tendrils of frigid air as they touch every corner of his lungs. His scarf is tight. He hopes it stays that way. He looks towards the end of the wooded trail and there is nothing.
The tears fall down his cheek.
He leaves them.
He won't take his hands out of his pocket.