It was a cold morning in Douville, and the bell in the center of town began its sixth chime as Mister Baker rose from his bed. He slipped on a thick fur coat, grabbed his rifle, and left his splendiferous cottage. The sun had barely risen, and the people were still in their homes. Thomas Baker was used to this; he was always one to get up at dawn. As the morning mist rolled in, Mister Baker took his weekly quail hunt. Just like town, however, it was devoid of life and full of fog. The formerly hopeful man sighed. “Even if I were a good enough shot to hit a bird, I wouldn’t see it anyway, what with all this mist,” laughed Thomas.

Left alone with only his gun to keep him company, Mister Baker did the only thing he’d done for the past three years: Think. He thought about Erikson and Falkin Oil, and the tens of thousands of customers it served. He thought about his little town, and how much he wanted to move into a city. He thought about his friends... His friends... Bradley, he thought, where had the time gone? It had only been five years since we started Erikson and Falkin Oil together. Why did tragedy strike so soon?... There was no time for looking back on the past. Instead, Thomas thought about his future, and his new life which he had carved out for himself in the past year. He was a Baker no longer. He wasn't a simpleton, a breadmaker, a slave to the societal machine like his parents. He was free to do what he wanted. The implications of this only struck the reborn Mister Falkin now. He breathed in the fresh, free, open air... And nearly dropped dead on the spot. He dropped his rifle, hacking and wheezing. The gun fired into the air with a sharp crack. Thomas Falkin stumbled out of the forest and back to his house in Douville. The occupied homes casted shadows on Mister Falkin, who was stumbling back to his cottage as he coughed down the streets, leaving splatters of crimson blood in his wake.

The streets came to life in the small town as people left their homes for a tough day's work. Mattie bartered with her neighbor Clyde for a pound of beef. Roger talked about how much his son wanted to be a plumber, giving a quick wave to Jeremy the maintenance man. Royce prowled the streets for his next pickpocket victims. But nobody seemed to mind the other businessman’s absence, and the streets began to pack with people as the day went on. And while everybody bustled in the town square, Thomas was in bed with failing lungs.

Mister Falkin wouldn't stand for this. He had to do something to distract his mind from his sudden onset of illness. As he always tended to do, he began to think. He thought about how to manage his business from within the confines of his bed, and just how terrible the repercussions of something like that might be. He thought about… Bradley Erikson. Poor Bradley Erikson. He couldn't stop thinking about the man. It had been a whole three years since Erikson had left under unfortunate circumstances. Then Thomas thought about his time in the army…

“It’s a nice photograph,” Bradley said, grinning as he passed a framed picture to his newfound friend, “don’t you think so?”
Thomas put down his bottle of liquor. “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve never seen a photograph before,” he said, as he scrutinized the photograph closer. “It looks better than a painting, that I know for sure.”

“I thought so too. Hey, Thomas,” Bradley whispered, leaning close, “I’ve an idea. I’m betting my savings on oil back home in Douville. How do you feel about joining me?”

Erikson and Falkin Oil was founded less than a year later. Falkin remembered how stunned he was that his friend’s gamble worked out so well. He remembered how excited he was to start a new life as a co-founder for a company that he believed would do such great things. He remembered how proud Bradley was of himself for making all the right decisions, cockily smiling... Then he remembered standing at a bedside for days on end, praying to God that things wouldn’t get worse, and he remembered losing his faith in religion when they did. He remembered sobbing at a busy funeral for hours, lamenting about every dream that he had for the company. He remembered staring longingly at that picture for an hour each day, hoping for those better times to come back, as the duo that turned rags to riches...

"Why?" Mister Falkin muttered, "Why did you have to leave me all by myself?"

Thomas Falkin couldn’t sleep, nor could he rest. His mind raced as he thought more and more. His business, his health, his future, his friends, his town, his place in the world... All he had left was thinking. And so, he resolved, I will think until the hour of my death. But all he could think about was unpleasant “could have been” possibilities. He thought about what would have happened if he worked at the bakery like his parents. He thought about what would have happened if he didn’t enlist in the war. He thought about what would have happened if he asked that one lady out. He thought about what could have happened, if only his ambitions and joy weren’t snuffed out in front of his very eyes.

He realized something then.

Mister Falkin had become his departed friend’s echo, sick and dying in bed. He closed his eyes and envisioned himself in place of Erikson. He imagined his friend standing over him, pleading to God for mercy for hours at a time. He imagined himself in a casket, with thousands weeping for him. He imagined looking into Bradley’s eyes and giving that damned cocky grin one last time before falling asleep for eternity. And when he opened his eyes... There was nobody there. He wiped his eyes, looking out the window towards the dispersing crowd as the bell tolled a sixth time.

And with one last glimpse at his most valued possession, he smiled, shut his eyes, and lay still forever.