The drunken vagrant danced down the street, laughing giddily as he kicked his heels up in the air.
“Mr. Singtor,” I called, “you still need to come with me to sign some papers.” I ran after him. He would eventually come to my office and hear the will. Then he’d be given the fortune and mansion and stocks. He’d probably kill himself in a month of unbridled debauchery. I wondered if he had any heirs, where the money would go after him. Maybe he’d turn around, gain some semblance of self-control. Maybe, whatever had driven him to the streets, maybe it could be solved with money.
Have I killed him or saved him? I wonder. After all these years of searching, I feel so tired. I don’t have an answer, and it’s not my job to find one.
Tale Told 