He smoked lazily, the only sharpness was in those pitch-black eyes as they raked over the crowd precisely.
But no,
he believed that with his eyesight, he would spot that person instantly.
But no.
Never.
That person never appeared, never within his line of sight.
Never.
Samuel Johnson coolly withdrew his gaze, the ashes on his cigarette having gathered to considerable length. His hand steadily knocked against the ashtray, scattering the ashes.
The window was open, the wind that blew in was cold, signaling another autumn.
He closed his eyes slightly, thinking to himself that when that person left, it was also an autumn. Time flew by so quickly, a year had already passed.
But it was only a year.
Why did it feel like a decade had passed?
He realized he had started to think again, and he forced his thoughts back, resisting the faint ache at his heart. His gaze settled on a folder, opening it with an appraising look, then he began to work through the documents.
