He doesn't fit. That's the first thing everyone notices, and the only detail they remember. They saw a little old man, and he didn't fit.
It isn't his fault. Not directly. He has a place, of course - everything does, sooner or later - but he can no longer find it. It is lost, and he squeezes into cracks as best he can, dreaming of home.
Home doesn't exist. Home is another causality, a different spacetime.
Home is dead. He killed it.
It was necessary. This fact occasionally comforts him.
But he is the only one who remembers, and so he must dream.
Flashy Fiction widget
3 hours ago