by neko

Epilogue carefully lowers the needle to the vinyl, a practiced action; he believes that familiarity is no cause for carelessness. He flips on the speakers and the air is filled with a simple guitar line and the whiny tones of Bob Dylan.

He doesn't listen for the vocals, of course, but the lyrics are haunting and sweet and he can almost imagine that this famous old man is singing to him. It reminds him of packed suitcases on a train station platform, of smiling parents waving as they send their son off to university.