Old Man Raleigh sits by the window, watching the crows gather on the power lines. His hands shake as he pours another glass of cheap rye.
Outside, the world keeps spinning, but he stopped moving years ago. The phone never rings. The past is the only thing keeping him company, and it’s got sharp teeth.
He lifts his glass to the birds and mutters, “Guess you’re the only ones left to hear my story.” The crows don’t answer. They never do.
コメント