He sat in a rocking chair, the old man. Filling his meerschaum pipe slowly with surgical precision required his full attention. When he was finished the pipe would perch at the side of his mouth. It was never, ever lit. The comfort of the ritual, the smell of the baccy, and the feel of it in his mouth was all he wanted. One Eye, his old cat lay curled on his lap purring contentedly. The fire, crackling logs and leaping flames, cast a shadow play on the walls of the old log cabin that was his home by the lake. There was no need for any other light. The backdrop of the night sky peeking in through the lone window whispered of mysteries not seen by the naked eye.
Outside, the velvety blackness was broken only by the twinkling of a million stars like brilliant diamonds scattered by a careless hand…
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