As his dark equivocal demeanor stood atop the rugged rooftops splattered by rain, he looks down at the dirt enveloped cobbled streets far below.

The moaning of men and wails of women can be heard over the din and bedlam of the silent streets that criss-crossed between the rough and weathered alleys that the beggars and bums called home.

With a swish of his long black duster coat, he slid down the mismatched walls of the old and forsaken building, bruising and battering the already blemished stones below.

As he landed, he looked up towards the street sign that sparkled and shimmered under the shining streak of scintillation emanating from the moon above.

“Adelaide Street,” he whispered whipping his worn and tattered tail coat around him.  

It had always been his favorite street. Housing the many stores that sold books and spells that charmed the mind and captivated the soul. This street was where poets pondered over parchments of prose to give birth to works of wonder that wiled the wits of mice and men.

He traipsed across the street to an old store with its whitewashed walls and worse for wear signboard. Peering inside, he saw the books lined up on the shelves, their spines facing outwards to display the many titles offered.

He remembers reading each and every title sold there. But tonight wasn’t about this store. Tonight was about the city.

She had been good to him. Saving his solitary and sequestered soul from his own sad and sorrowful spirit that housed his many demons, and acting as a crucial compass on his journey for salvation.

Citte Silencia had been home and tonight he would bid it goodbye.

Long had he taken refuge within its warm and hospitable walls and sat atop its soaring, statuesque spires with the birds and gargoyles that would often help him find his answers.

However, he knows now he must find his own path.

He walks solemnly through the silent streets that mere hours ago was bustling with activity. Now, not a soul in sight. He prefers it this way. No one to see him strut about between the shadows and the dreams of those wanting something more out of their morose and mournful motion they call life.

Be good to her,” he says to all the ones that would come thereafter. To the poets and the writers and the men and women who find her intriguing and interesting, who fall for her mystery and mannerisms he bids them luck. She is a difficult one, but worth it nonetheless. “As she has been good to me.”

At the end of Adelaide Street he glances back. He gives a final salute for the service and salvation the city has given him and trots off, coat tail whipping about around him towards the waning moon.

The night is still young and many more adventures await.