He sat outside the apartments—the smell of the polish was always upsetting in the enclosed environment of his room—rubbing the leather of his shoes. He was looking down, his bony shoulders poking through under his shirt the same way they poked through is emaciated skin. Tired, he swooned slightly, pressing his forehead into the cold iron of the gate. Taking a few long breaths, he held back the tears of his life. A voice broke his remembrances.
“There’s a place for you if you’re willing to come.”
“I know,” he said.
“Your mother’s there.”
“I know,” he croaked nearly sobbing, “but my vision—there is something I must do here before I go.”
“I know,” the voice replied. Then leaning down, the agent kissed the head of the artist. “I’m sorry.”