• The lights were dim. Black curtains kept away the gray outside, and inside the yellow candles flickered. There was a bed fit for a king, but this king was far passed his ruling years.

    "My son.... My son...." coughed the dying king.

    The commotion in the room became more panicked. People started shouting things like: "What?", “What about your son?", and "Out with it, man!". But the poor king could only raise his hand to shush the din.

    "My son.... I am going to write a letter to him."

    "Poor fool," said one person, "He's gone like a lunatic in his old age. Just let him die out and we'll decide who's in charge afterward."

    The near-corpse waved his hand.

    "No, no," he said, "it is my son."

    "You're son's dead," another person explained. "Don't you remember?"

    "Stop!" the old king rasped. "I know my son is dead, but I have another. He is still alive."

    Though the men who had stared into his hollow face found no trace of lunacy, they proclaimed it anyway. This man was not a man anymore, but an irrational decision.

    "Why do you mock me?" he asked hoarsely. "I tell you... he is still alive, just as I am still alive. And as long as I am alive... I am in charge. Now.... Someone, I am going to dictate a letter... for you. This letter... will be sent to my son."