"What was his name?" A blunt, cold voice. A pen, hanging above a clean notepad. Poised to write.
"His name is-" A teardrop. "Was. He was Warden."
"Age." Oh, those cold eyes, demanding the memories of my best friend from me. The harsh voice of authority.
He turned to me, with a look that simply said: "Man up, and hurry. I have things to do."
I'll hate him forever for that.

The End

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