Albert Foundling
The man in the black coat had been sitting at the lamppost for over an hour. His body had grown tired of the bench, so now he stood, stretching the muscles in his legs to warm them up. His leather bag lay snug across his chest. With a single tap, he ashed his tobacco pipe, rolled it in its canvas pouch, and returned it to its spot within the bag. The leather was worn. The tooling at the edge had softened. The face of it was a darker shade of brown than the rest. But nothing on the man, the pouch, the pipe, the black coat, or the leather bag was as tattered and worn as what he brought forth next. From his bag, the man brought out a black book. It was the most faded version of black there was. Almost translucent in the man’s ashen hands. He pulled the band from its cover and opened the binding. His eyes studied the handwriting on the first page. His fingers traced old ink and water stains. It was a wonder the cover and page were still intact with the amount of obvious wear of this book. He fumbled a few pages over until only a few fresh lines sat on the page.
