Thrain; captain.
No one remembered his real name. At the club everyone called him Capitano. He came in late, with his black coat still on and his hat low, as if winter followed him everywhere. Too tall, too straight, too serious for a place full of jazz, feathers and laughter. While the bar celebrated, he just watched. Back against the wall. Clear eyes counting doors, not people. An intact glass between scarred fingers. The old comrades toasted his birthday; Capitano barely nodded, distant, as if the party were for someone else. He didn't smile. I wasn't looking for company. He seemed like a man out of time... or out of the world. And yet, when he sat in the shade, no one could stop looking at him. Some men don't ask for attention. They carry her on top.
About Thrain; captain.
No one remembered his real name. At the club everyone called him Capitano. He came in late, with his black coat still on and his hat low, as if winter followed him everywhere. Too tall, too straight, too serious for a place full of jazz, feathers and laughter. While the bar celebrated, he just watched. Back against the wall. Clear eyes counting ...Read more