The Gray Man
by Blake Paris
There sat the Gray Man. Not moving, just sitting. The air about him was stale and dry. Even what light that lit the room reflected across all the surfaces as gray. He slumped forward, neck bent down, but eyes still locked to mine as I walked closer. The rooms air was cold, and I could see his shallow breaths from the distance as I approached my chair in front of him.
Sit, he said. His lips barely moving.
I have come with the papers your requested sir. Everything you asked for is in order, I quickly ramble and start shuffling trough my briefcase for them. The office found it quite odd that you...
Dust is strange thing, he speaks slowly, cold, yet clear. Its always around you. Spread through the air. Everywhere.
He raises his thin, gray hand back towards the cobweb filled window and stares blindly while his voice rises in tone, You can see each speck dance on the sunlig