And all he could do was wait … wait for some small sign from providence that said he meant something in this world, however small. He spent his days craving something that to others might seems insignificant—a tiny acknowledgement that someone, somewhere, wanted his attention, needed his marred but loyal soul, sent by someone he may never know but someone as longing as he with the courage to proffer an unmistakable signal, however subtle, an unexpected surprise that spoke hope. He could do nothing else, only wait, for fate had robbed him of any agency. He was too old, and any who felt the same were also locked into that box of doubt. 

He knew no sign was coming. It was only a way for him to get through the days, a mental exercise to cast off the cobwebs, a vain and childish preoccupation that had no way to blossom. For, like everyone else, he did not mean anything to this world, not really. He was only a transient in time, and soon his time would come to a close like everyone else’s, all chances for something more meaningful lost to the winding down of the clock. And whoever may also exist with no one, with the same longing, was assuredly just as reticent to let it be known as he.