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The fountain flowed. The gentle trickling water swished over the polished marble angels. The man in the collar stared into the reflecting water while sipping on a lukewarm latte. He paced on the cobbled street, glancing intently into the fountain between sips and the twisting of his hair. The bells from the steeple rang in the distance. 4:00, he thought. He threw the half-full latte away in the silver garbage can. He left.
The next day he returned at 3:30. For three weeks, the monotonous routine continued. Every once in a while an occasional bystander would approach and venture to speak to him. He would smile politely, yet sadly, and proceed to staring, pacing, and the twisting of his hair. When the bells rang, the cold half-full emerald cup would be thrown away into the shimmering garbage can. He was contemplating, waiting. Waiting for what: for time to abandon its ticker, for Christ to return, for the fountain to stop flowing?
Suddenly, his daily brooding stopped. The sinners searched for repentance to no avail, the gypsies exchanged questioning glances, and the children’s curiosity increased. A week went by. The collared man remained absent. When he returned, he no longer held an emerald cup in his hand. Instead, clinging to his fingers was a little girl wearing dark sunglasses that matched her dark braided her. She squeezed his fingers as he led her to the fountain. The sounds of the swishing water and choir of the peoples’ voices made her smile with an innocence only youth possesses. For thirty minutes they stood at the fountain. He didn’t pace. He didn’t twist his hair. At 4 o’clock, they listened to the music of the bells and left.
The custom was continued every day until the little girl ceased to wear braids in her hair and the collared man needed a cane to guide him along. Then one day the girl came alone. The gypsies were silent, the children quit their games. A tear slid beneath the dark sunglasses. The fountain had stopped. The bells didn’t ring.