— somewhere in the united states, september 2006

It was a quiet day. Running his errands slowly seemed like a good idea, considering he had nothing else to do. But that was just as good.

He walked down the street in the light of the afternoon sun. Cars passed him as he was distracted by a vibration in his pocket. Fumbling for his phone, he checked to make sure the coast was clear before crossing the street in front of him. Nothing like being careful.

"Hello?" he answered after accepting the call from an unknown number.

He had almost entered his local bank when the voice on the other end of the line stopped him. "Is that you?" the voice asked, sounding somewhat calm, but also worried.

Swallowing hard, his slightly trembling hand opened the door he had just tried to pass through. "I think you have the wrong number, sir."

"Please don't say that. I finally found you, I-" He hung up.

He didn't want this person to find him. But it seemed like he already had, so what use was running? Whatever he did now, it would gradually force him to make a decision.

A heavy sigh was heard as he reached for his wallet to do what he had come to do. "Good morning, Mr. Sanders, how are you today?" the friendly booth operator asked as she took his card. "How can I help you?"

"Nothing much, I just..."

The young girl in front of him had started working at this branch about two years ago. By now, she had gotten used to everything and wasn't one to be easily surprised.

So he couldn't help but shut his mouth after seeing her eyes go wide in shock. He lowered his hands to the counter, noticing the atmosphere around him change slightly, then he heard that distinct kind of clicking sound behind his back.

"Get on the ground if you don't want me to shoot you!" A bellowing command, followed by a deafening bang as dust and pieces of plaster fell from the ceiling.

Milton Sanders had grown up in this city; he was old and weary. He had been visiting this branch ever since it had moved there from another location - and, of course, he had visited the place where it was located before that. It was something unprecedented.

The man tossed a duffel bag to the teller Milton had just been talking to. "Put the money in there. No tricks. And you!" The muzzle of his Beretta 92 was pointed directly at him. "I said, 'Get on the ground,' you old fart. Can't you hear me?"

"I can hear you just fine," the senior citizen replied tiredly, "but it is as you say. I am old. I can't do this so easily."

But his calm demeanor seemed to agitate the would-be bank robber even more. He approached the desk, kicked the bag even closer to the young woman, and grabbed the old man by the shoulder to pull him down.

It wasn't that he really tried to defend himself. There was just something in him, after all these uneventful years, that made him strangely stubborn.

It made him think, 'What have I done to deserve this kind of humiliation?'

At the same time, the obviously nervous criminal next to him was trying to make him get down on the ground, as if his life depended on the surrender of this one elderly person. It's the type of workout that can get you even more worked up.

And that's when it happened: There was another bang, and suddenly the room went silent.

At first there was nothing, as if the noise had merely shaken everyone up. Then there was this sharp pain that made Milton reach for his chest. It happened within seconds, there was nothing one could have done to prevent it.

All he could do was sink to the floor and feel the blood pooling beneath his body as his heart slowly stopped beating. He looked up at the hole in the white ceiling, imagining that it must look similar to the one in his own body.

It hurt. But he was already starting to lose consciousness, so it wasn't that bad. Still, it wasn't the end of this quiet life he had imagined.

'But, oh well, it is an end indeed.' Better luck next time.