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His eyes were embers. He arose from the waiting room and paced towards the neighbour. The detritus failed to hinder his strides. Lay at the bottom of the stairs, blood pouring from his wound, he screamed and cried.

“No-one is coming for you” said the unblinking eyes, less than a foot from the man's face. He stayed with him a while. Gazing into his face, peering down at his stomach, watching as the neighbours' hands struggled increasingly to apply pressure to the wound, since his strength was fading, and because it was just so slippery. Then the visitor reached into his pocket, and pulled out a handful of ashes. Still hot he laid them over the man’s wound. The neighbour watched them fill and cover the wound.

“Don’t die,” said the eyes, as everything went black.