Close to the quiet window, I could still remember how the place looked like. They smelled the rust and the people. They closed behind the train. Everyone always called him the merchant but nobody knew his real name or who he was or where he came from. They only see him at that place.
He was there to sell. He only sold dead in small doses. Cigarettes were all lists and there was something stronger. I saw pills that promised you to sleep forever without waking up. I saw all kinds of illicit items that he sold, something like a tiny vat of clear liquid and that liquid is very powerful to stop a heart. Meat beets. He was not pushing. He just laid there with his clothes and waited for someone to purchase.
So the kids came. They were all excited. Old men, lovers, also came for their purchase. I even watched a woman in red coat even put one single bullet. But here she did not have a gun. I wonder what she wanted to do with that bullet.
She was holding it like a secret and walked away. But years later, we get to realize that sometimes when we see this thing first, the windows, when you see the silhouette, everything that is within that are not there, then we come to realize that death doesn't need a storefront.
Jotting someone that is right there at the right time, that is willing to trade life or your soul for it.
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