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"There was a man, a stranger, a lone traveler. He would wander the world, from home to home, knocking on doors, seeing if they open.
He was an average figure, one of those face you'd forget the moment he walked away, yet he always seemed to prefer keeping himself to the shadows, as if he didn't like to be seen, or looked at.
No one really knew much of him, but people were oddly drawn to him.
He would knock on their door, and most of them would open.
He would say something to them, and their faces lit up like those of children on Christmas day. They would let the mysterious stranger inside, and he would spend a little time there, amongst the families.

It never really mattered if the people were occupied, feeling sad, or simply tired of guests. Once they would hear his knock, they were happy.

Unnaturaly, his departure carried the same warmth and familiarity as his arrival. And so, the stranger left, and the people and families visited by him returned to their lives as if nothing happened at all.

The man only ever offered to share what he had.
He had nothing, he carried nothing, aside from his old clothes, and heavy step.
The drifter didn't necessarily have nothing. He had something. Different than usual, sure, but something still.
He would knock on people's homes, and he would offer to share something with them. He would take them on a journey, an adventure. He would share a tale, a story, a detail. A small, normal event to him, but so precious to them.

The man would enter people's lives, even only for a moment, and offer them a break. Brfef, yes, but still a break. A distraction, if ever so little, that brought smiles upon their faces. The nature of the tales was irrelevant. Their lives and souls linked, estranged but familiar, for the shortest of times.

And so, the stranger leaves..."