At one point, he thought he could leave it all behind, but when the pressure came, only these old friends could share the burden with him.
The sensation of numbness gradually spread, easing his tense nerves. Looking out the window, there was a faint glimmer of light beneath the dark curtain of night.
A pure white glimmer emerged at the horizon's edge, as if chasing after this train. As time went on, it grew larger, contending with the night, trying to push it back.
It was a beautiful scene, unfortunately, Lorenzo had no one to share it with.
For some reason, this reminded him of a story by Oscar; which book it was, he couldn't quite recall. After all, this mediocre writer penned many unsellable trash books, changing his pen names repeatedly for a chance at publication.
The old hunter stood exhausted on the shattered ice, shouldering the big fish he'd killed, crying as the sun rose at the horizon's edge.
