Migration

He’d spend his days in the little garden, pulling weeds, or fixing little things around the house. Nailing down the loose floorboards. Taping up the torn screen door. He couldn’t get the kitchen faucet to stop dripping, so he left a jug beneath it, and used it to water the carrots, peas and potatoes.

Evenings he’s sit out on the balcony, smoking, and nights, strumming the old guitar he’d found inside, using the stars as sheet music.

One morning, a traveler stopped by, looking for someone, he said.

“Ain’t no one here.”

The traveler sat down, said he’d wait.

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