My face stung from the icy wind, and my hands felt like stone. The only warmth was the burning in my throat from the homemade whisky I downed previously. I was spent, and I knew this was the reason for my diminishing client base. My carriage was scarcely called for after Belle's passing. They do not want to confront a drunken, newly widowed driver. It is too uncomfortable for them. The thought of actually getting an honest answer the question, how are you?

The answer; alive…

The home Belle and I shared was a small apartment above the store she worked in. When we first met I was just a young stable hand working the night shift. She would bring my dinner and breakfast each day, and I would fill her head with outrageous stories of my past. As I moved up the ranks to driver, then to owning half of the carriage service, I felt more confident that I could provide for her. We were married a few months later.

Even with my high income we had no desire to move from the apartment. The unfortunate fact that no children would become part of our family was a contributing factor. Nevertheless we were happy.

A few years passed, and I proceeded to buy out the other half of the taxiing service. Two carriages were mine, along with six healthy thoroughbreds. Life was good, until that fateful night of the burglary. Belle was home alone while I took a client and his wife home form the theater. The man had attempted to break into the store, but unknown last minute assessment made him climb up the back stairs to our home. I arrived soon after and found her slain on the living room rug. Weeks went by and I did not take any clients. I drank day in and day out, and senselessly neglected all responsibilities. The storeowner was forced to claim rent after two months of my foolishness. I went through my life savings, and subsequently began selling 4 of my horses along with larger of the two carriages. Soon came the stable, then furniture. What was the point? I asked myself, I could not an answer. Eventually, I had to pull myself from the bottle long enough to set up a few appointment with my remaining two horses and carriage. Most on these appointments were clearly from pity. I had started sleeping in the carriage and this disturbed many on the higher echelons I once catered to.

Now and then I receive a note requesting my services, but lately it is as if I am invisible. Yesterday morning however, when I walked into the bar I was slid a note from the tender. It was a time and place inked onto an old, discolored piece of parchment. And here I stand. The Smith Theater, 7PM on a snowy Thursday night. There is no instruction for whom to look for, or what name to call.