The bright, happy sun
The sun was setting over the small, peaceful village, casting a soft golden glow over the streets. The air was warm, with just the faintest hint of a breeze that rustled the leaves of the trees lining the sidewalks. A small group of children, no older than six or seven, played on the corner near the bakery, their laughter ringing out as they chased one another in circles, pausing only to wave at the elderly man sitting on the porch of the house across the street.
He had lived there for years, and every evening he would sit in the same chair, watching the children and the world go by. Sometimes, he would wave at them, and they would wave back with the bright smiles only children seem capable of. He never minded that they always stopped just short of his yard. He didn’t want them to come too close, and they never did. He was, after all, a man of routines.
The sky turned a deeper shade of orange as the village grew quieter. Neighbors went inside to enjoy their dinners, the soft murmur of voices filtering through the open windows. The bakery closed for the night, its sweet aroma lingering in the air just a little longer before it vanished completely. The children slowly trickled back to their homes, each of them pausing just before the last house on the street to glance back at the elderly man, still sitting on his porch, watching them with his gentle, content smile.
As the last light of the evening dipped below the horizon, the village was perfectly still. The quiet was soothing. The air, crisp. The warmth of the setting sun lingered, but it was almost as if it were holding its breath, waiting.
Inside his home, the man carefully locked the door, as he did every evening, and made his way to the back of the house. He ran his hand over the old wooden panels on the wall before opening the door that led down into the cellar. It was always locked, of course, but no one had noticed the key in his pocket for years. He smiled as the creaking door opened, the cool air of the cellar greeting him as he stepped inside.
He could hear them already, a low, soft murmur, like a lullaby.
“Goodnight, dear,” he whispered, gently closing the door behind him. The children, he knew, would sleep soundly. They always did.
