He entered with pockets full of last things. The final petal of a vanished flower. The final nail from a broken bridge. The final note of a song no longer sung.
He unwrapped them slowly on the counter, laying each down like a priest at vigil.
He asked:
“Have you something for those who carry too many conclusions?”
I gave him a drink made with unfurling bud-leaf and emberseed. It halts endings—suspends the mind in a state just before parting.
He drank. Shook my hand. Bowed to the fire.
Left the last breath of an extinct wind in a jar beside the hearth. It hums softly now whenever someone says goodbye.
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