Flanked by the only carbon stain with fan-shaped wings in the village, the old man shattered his sick laziness and suddenly jumped into the alley to walk the true path one last time. All the newcomers had gathered around the thin gates to lead him towards the church, a tall structure much more than old, rather a broken shipwreck of stranded hearts raised around The Flood. His big eyes whispered for a new light to hide him from all the crosses that had turned into calendar sheets. “Come home, my man,” he heard from somewhere above. He had forgotten about the open gate.