"Can I go with you?"

He said fearfully with a very low and sweet tone, staring at his father from the small window of the log cabin, as the tall broad-shouldered man was putting on his jacket and boots out on the porch.

The sky was still splattered by sparks of sunlight, and the clouds were white as cotton, but the sun was already setting down. The green leaves of the tall trees had begun to turn into coffee brown, and the warm breezes of summer had departed, leaving the door opened to the cool wet wind of autumn.

"No."

His voice, as harsh as usual, was followed by the heavy thumps of his leather boots on the hollow wooden floor of the cabin porch, which were less loud every step he took away from the house, leaving behind him a heartbroken child.

Alone again, in the middle of the wild trees and slippery squirrels, the little boy went to his secret place to find his confidential treasure, and only entertainment and ease to his loneliness. He ran freely to a corner of his minuscule bedroom, where a colourful carpet covered a wood plank which tone had faded a bit away, and he lifted it, putting out a little notebook bound in black leather.

It was a sketchbook. A small piece of charcoal carefully kept inside the yellowish pages and the leather cover.

His green eyes staring out of the window, as his fingertips traced the cover with delicacy.

The notebook had two letters carved in golden at one of the corners of the front.

F. H.