I always saw this man by the round window of the library. He had long, shiny silver hair and from the one glance I saw he had remarkable bright red eyes that seemed to glow with melancholy? I don't know, he looked away soon after. His lips were thin and dry, sometimes I'd see a small spot of red in the corners. His skin was sickly pale. 

He looked otherworldly, always wearing a white long-sleeve button up shirt with a short sleeved sweater no matter the weather.

His eyes would be glazed over like he could see far beyond our world, like his fingers could reach and touch the stars, hold the sun in his hands and the planets on his shoulders. Maybe he'd go even further. Into a dimension man-kind hasn't discovered yet.

Once in a while he'd glance down, to the cobbled streets with a hint of disdain on his blank face, sometimes I think I'll catch his eye and we'd stare at each other. I like to think he notices me the same way I notice him.

One day I gathered my courage in my hands, careful to not let it slip through my fingers and dragged myself up to his window seat.

I settled myself on an old, worn brown chair and sinked into it. His features were sharp and his face quite angular. I was afraid that I'd get myself cut.

His red eyes roamed and met mine. My courage slowly slipped into the cracks between my fingers.

"What do you see?" I asked simply.

There was a slight twitch of his mouth.

The beginnings of a frown or a smile, I do not know.

"I see far away from here," He murmured, low and gravelly, "I see a world, galaxies away."

He sighed, a heavy one that lifted his shoulders and made him hang his head, "Somewhere, I can fly free, unhindered by gravity."

"To be able to soar in the sky, leaving everything and everyone behind," He frowned "Somewhere, where he's still alive and I could gaze into his eyes once again, and feel his skin, hair and breath." 

I hummed and briefly brushed my thumb across his knuckles. 

I smiled but I'm afraid it might've felt melancholic.

He stood up and walked away, I watched him go and neither of us exchanged farewells.

I didn't see him the next day. Nor the one after that.

The round window is unoccupied now, only I sit on it nowadays.

And I look outside the window, looking for the world he described.

Searching for the man with silver hair and red eyes, dry lips and pale face. A man filled with longing and dreams.