The man sitting by the flowerbed downstairs had long hair that fell freely over his shoulders, loose and unrestrained, moving gently with the night breeze. It was the kind of hair people usually associated with artists, drifters, or men who had long given up on conventional life. Yet the contrast was striking—almost absurd—because the rest of his appearance suggested anything but elegance.
He wore nothing more than a plain white undershirt, the kind elderly men favored in the summer, thin and slightly stretched out at the collar. Below it was a pair of dark blue knee-length shorts, worn soft by time and washing. No watch. No visible jewelry. No polished shoes. At a glance, he looked like someone who had wandered out of an alleyway after digging through trash for dinner.
Anyone seeing him
