A Small Village
First were the seagulls. They knew before we did, and they left the village. A few days later it was the pigeons that left. Only the crows remain. They’re not afraid of a sea creature. When I walk down the street, all I can hear is their caws, laughing and mocking me. The village elders mutter and remark, “This happened before, eighty years ago, during the Great War.” But those were different times, and we knew what we had to do and when. Now, most of us have passed away, and others left after they lost a loved one. There isn’t anyone who can do it now. It’s just me, and I can’t do it alone because of this bloody rheumatism.
“Hello, John? It’s Cosme, the librarian. Would you like to come fishing with me tomorrow morning? You’ve been in the village for weeks now, and we haven’t had the chance to chat.”