That morning, like every morning, left the house and slid to the floor in front of the door. The weather seemed to have taken up residence in that gnarled body tired, it seemed that you rest in the quiet moments, the moments when no one notices his race. Slid to the ground and waited, a confident smile on his face, always the same. From time to time the smile turned into an expression of gentle curiosity, as if he had found a long lost game. Punctually then shook his head and everything is as before, appeared again the old statue and absorbed her smile, pale. Everyone looked at him with contempt.
'E' old dead, as well as can be expected, "so they said, but his smile did not seem to listen. He seemed not to listen to anyone, but let through time from the sun, endless hours of drops of tears without eyes in the endless winters that now separated him from the moment he was born. "He'll be back, somehow return, he promised" - always answered it, whispering in his eyes lost nothing. O in the whole. Anyone who knew him in the country, ruined that house for generations was the symbol of a life that seemed to want to end, a will that he had found a way, that way everyone is looking for. His story was handed down while he continues to age, watching the villagers and their children die without seeing them, unaware of their presence. He waited, absorbed. Waiting for the demonstration, one for which he had risked so much, both of which he was convinced.
"It 's time to reach you, you deserve it ... the old"
But he was still absorbed waiting, waiting for proof that he had to blow the world. They spent the rays of the sun, the rain passed, and passed the dust carried by the wind that caressed him, never the same wind.
Again time that day her smile turned into an expression of childlike curiosity and docile, the arched eyebrows and furrowed brow as if waiting for a response. This time he shook his head.
The smile widened. He breathed deeply. Once. Eyes closed. He breathed deeply. A hundred times. He let the air fill the fragment. He stood up.
"Did you remember to die at last, old murderess?" - Shouted from the street to keep his tired footsteps move as they had never done.
said unnaturally husky voice, the voice of a madman who seemed to come from eternity: "And 'round, I think this was her perfume. He had promised, has returned, have you seen? Yes, I'm pretty sure that this was, I think back, I'm sure, almost sure ...". He bent over, with the index gleamed across the dust on the floor drawing something. Then he lay down beside him. He died. The usual smile on his face and that dried blood still on his hands for centuries. For a few moments was one written in the dust for some time resisted the rays of the sun, rain and the winds are always different. Then he disappeared.
fell the same way that house, as if he had also been waiting for this moment, the demonstration that no one could ever understand or see the evidence hidden inside, hidden from the weather, rain, sun. The winds are always different. So disappeared the memory of that old body gnarled and joy with which he had crossed the letters that were indelible, but only for him, there in the dust: "the good things always come back."
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