She had woken up from a vivid dream where she had the chance to talk to him again and potentially make amends. In her dream she didn’t ever see him. But she could feel he was there. The recollection of his inquiring questions flickered at her like sporadic light from a poorly wired lightbulb. She sat in a dimly lit room filled with dark booths, tucked away from the already limited light. The wooden tables were worn and smooth, scarred with old knife carvings.
It was dark and hazy, difficult to see the faces of those at nearby tables. She recalled his intent seriousness splintered with blunt humour.
Her mind was wrapped in memory. The convoluted ways he described the mundane. Peculiar habits she became accustomed to not acknowledging. And suddenly it felt like he was gone. She stood up and looked into the booth nearby.
She noticed several discarded objects on the floor. A spool of thread, a paper clip and a large black button. A crumpled up piece of paper. She took the piece of paper and unfolded it. It read:
On the back, his signature. A greater than equal sign and a zero with a slash through it.
“Null isn’t fooling anyone”. He used to say about a character he wrote. Maybe not, but he loved a good riddle.
She looked around quickly, searching the room for him. The back of his hair, a black sweater. She closed her eyes to feel the stomp of his boots. She looked to the corners, to see if he was watching.