Perpetual fire. His wait, like a perpetual fire. He would sit by the window, the palm of his hand holding up his chin, his elbows pressing the window ledge, his eyes closed as if weighted by the sky. During these moments, he rarely utters a word, but when he does it’s as if he’s speaking in another tongue. The words are not his but only borrowed, a script he’s memorized but never understood.

He is waiting for his stories, which came without certainties. Often, he would surprise him, after a long day at the rice fields… and then he would be there in his house as if he never left. He would be sitting on his favorite stool, holding his favorite cup with the chip on the rim. When he sipped his coffee, and noticed almost belatedly that his lips will touch the chipped part, he would turn the cup just a few degrees clockwise, smell the coffee and drink as if nothing has distracted him. The man who waits for stories would replay this scene over and over in his mind to the point of obsession. It’s enough to tide him over.

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