There he stands, lost in his thoughts, I clearly see a shadow lurking in his path, eluding his gaze
and perplexing his mind. His once beaming eyes darken; the glow of his stories leaves him and
his shoulders stoop from an unknown weight.
Within The Storyteller I find familiarity in the shadows of sadness etched onto his face. In his
faraway gaze I know the sight he seeks. From my distance I wonder what has brought him to this
point. He eventually gives into sleep, his head buried in his hands.
In his repose, his grip loosens around a paper he has clutched in his hand, and it is torn away by
an errant draft where it travels to me at the edge of Twilight.
In my hands I find a letter from his son.
“Dear Father,
Much time has passed since I left home.
You never quit storytelling, regardless of the poverty we were in. Our conditions never
improved. To this day I keep thinking if I were in your place, I would have done anything except
for storytelling, which failed to bring us from our impoverished state.
Now I am here, far away, where I work hard every day to survive. I can remember what you said
to me when I was leaving—you said to me that you weren 't rich, but you could give me advice.
In the end, Father, you gave me neither money nor advice.
Even now I work from dawn until dusk, every day, but still cannot earn enough money to help
myself, let alone you. You taught me many things, but never how to make money.
Father, I am sure story telling still gives you much satisfaction, but it also brings with it much
uncertainty.”
A name is scrawled at the bottom, but I cannot make it out. It could be any name, but it matters
little. That tale has been told. Drawing myself from the contents of the letter, I look once more
and see The Last Storyteller standing before me. The man I gaze upon seems entirely different
than The Storyteller I feel a kinship to, through many watches from my Window. His wizened
eyes delve deep into my soul and I feel the full weight of his resignation. Now in standing this
close to him I no longer see the light in his eyes. I now know it is only reserved for the stories he
tells.
Embarrassed, I cough, “Is this your letter?” and thrust the paper towards him.
Before turning to go, we look at each other and understanding fills the space between us.
He touches my shoulder and speaks simply. “I know you write stories, but our lives are afflicted
by the stories that write us.” With that, he continues on his way, ambling towards his pitch,
taking his letter with him.
I continue to watch as the bazaar becomes more barren. Every time I open Twilight, I see even
less than the night before. The bazaar is dying, slain by a changing economy, by a world which
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