A man makes a little proscenium in a living room. He looks around over his shoulder. Then he climbs through. His new surroundings are miniature and picturesque. Snow is falling. He opens a big, dark, high-domed umbrella. He starts up the cobblestones beside a canal. A green barge toots mournfully as it passes: the snowflakes make a cap on its stern lamp. The man waves after it. He quickens his pace. In the silence he is aware of his breathing — the clouds of his breath — of the sounds of his footfall, the rub of his clothing, the miniscule patter of the falling snow.
He hurries along under his umbrella, beside the canal, until he is a small dark point, until he is indistinguishable in the silent scenery.
Later, someone comes into the room, and, going by the table to get a book, draws shut the toy-sized curtain.