Mid-morning Leyton, just past 1986

All wrapped up in cloth, stuffed in a box, under the stairs, smelling of must, we found him. 

Unwrapped, he stood stiffly, blinked then eyed us - one by one by one - as he wound the watch on his wrist. 

We had been looking for chapatti flour, we had not lost that, it was where it was supposed to have been, in the dustbin, with its scoop and all. No, the box was the oddity. Too large for its space, too large to have always been there unseen, with dust befitting its situation.

 . ."its time I left," that is all he said, near upending the bin in his haste, and pushed past us. He lifted his arms, as he squashed through the bikes and our junk in the passageway, as if trying to avoid soaking his sleeves while wading.

And he was gone down the street, past the bins and dead cars and trolleys. Dust devils blowing through the chapatti flour, mid-morning Leyton, just past 1986.