In the middle of the city, nestled among storefront buildings from another time, a garden waits: a box canyon of building walls, with a park bench waiting in ambush. That is precisely what happened to Jacob Illyovich. Ambushed. The smell of hollyhock drew him and he could not defy the park bench in the warm fragrance laden air. His feet heavy from treading the streets of the city, plodded toward the bench. His face dry and eyes arid from the dusty oppressive summer day drank the humidity of that place.
As if a dream, a quiet reverie, his body, like a feather fell. His head resting on his arm, his body sprawling across the splintery green bench, his eyes closed and his mind finally quieted.