He did not look old, but he was not young. He did not look old except for his eyes. As we nursed him through his fever, they would sometimes open wide with terror, and I would see within them chasms of ancient depth. I suspect he was something of a spirit, one of the forgotten gods. He did not look old.
I caught him when he snuck out. I would have stopped anyone else, but there was, with him, something different. I don’t think I could have stopped him; I don’t think I would have caught him at all but that he wanted to say goodbye, thank you.
It was the day after his fever broke, early in the morning. The sun was just a glint in the dusty horizon. He looked so tired when I saw him pulling on that old, tattered coat. He turned those grim eyes on me and smiled.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Wherever my legs take me,” he sighed, gazing out at the sunrise.
I don’t know where he went, why he’s running, why you’re chasing. I don’t know what any of this is all about. I’m a nurse, I treated him, and he’s gone.
Tale Told 