You looked out of your bedroom window, and saw him on the pavement.
You couldn’t stop staring, a lifetime concluded. You knew instinctively he was dead.
Nobody collapses into a heap like that, with their neck against the wall at such a cruel angle, and their legs folded as if empty of muscle and bone; nobody goes that shade of grey if the heart is still employed; nobody falls like that unless the silver thread has been detached.
The puppet master, the artist, had collected her things and left.
You were told not to stare, but you couldn’t help it.
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