Last Dance (1)

"Mmm..."

As heavy eyelids finally yield to time and open, the light coming through the window gives a rough indication of the time.

"It's late morning."

Who was it that said the elderly lose their sleep? Those young sprouts, barely sixty, often say such things, but Bunge couldn't agree.

When you truly get old - that is, when it becomes difficult to find someone older than yourself on the street - even opening your eyes after closing them becomes a struggle.

And then comes the day when you never open them again.

Bunge lightly left his bedroom and put a piece of bread and coffee that the servant had brought into his mouth.

It wasn't particularly tasty.

For an elderly person who had become insensitive, both sleep and food were merely acts of survival.

After breakfast, Bunge had to prepare for work immediately.

He combed his few remaining hairs neatly to the left side, sticking them down, and trimmed his beard.