He walked down the street with his death behind him, footsteps just a beat behind his own. He paused at the corner. Busy street; could be dangerous. He glanced at his death. The cowled head shook slowly. Not now. Not yet time.
Why would it tell the truth? he wondered. But the habit was ingrained by now. He stepped out cautiously when the light turned.
“Oh, isn’t that sad,” said an old lady, pointing. A young child walked behind his mother, his death close on his heels. Even the old woman’s was half-step behind her. “Such a shame,” she clucked.
That Pot Or Vase I Think
1 day ago