And thus it ended.
The teacher, in all his faded and battered majesty, was dead.
Killed by living, too many years of chalk-dusted breaths in and out.
Slowly crumbling like a collapsed stack of old hymn books in some forgotten attic.
Poor, forgotten man.
He died even as he lived and he lived quietly while he died.
I seem to be stuck on a theme of beginnings and endings…