The last (k) night

There they stood, ranged along the hillsides, met To view the last of me. A living frame For one more picture! in a sheet of flame I saw them and I knew them all. And yet Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set, And blew. “Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came.”—ROBERT BROWNING

The old man signed his name and laid down his pen with a weary hand. He sighed heavily; his will and testament had not taken long to write. His possessions were few—worthless heirlooms, faded gowns, and dusty scrolls from older days. He had no family to treasure them, no acolytes to venerate them.

From outside the shuttered windows came the sounds of everyday life …