He donned a beige overcoat and long black jeans. Sprawled on crusty asphalt and the stiff sidewalk, he could feel the softest pitter-patter of rain on his open palms. The warm glow of a streetlamp watched over him, dangling like ornaments on a Christmas tree.
What am I?
Something was protruding on his side. A nagging sensation. Bending over to his side revealed a brown satchel, a thin leather handle draped over his left shoulder. The worn gold button gave a clicking sound, as the satchel flap opened wide, like that of a twisting key. In lay a book, weathered with time.
<A MANUAL TO EXISTENCE: V00>
Curious. Maybe this would have answers. The boy opened the book, poring over the first page.
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<First boot - Starting up>
FONS.
That is who you are. What lies in this book will guide you through existence, should you follow its suggestions-
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The sky cried down on him. Momentarily pausing, he picked himself up, lumbering over to the framed park bench.
Fons. That is who I am.
fons...Fons.
So many more questions. Fons furrowed his brow. Was it sweat or rain?
Rain? Sweat?
What was going on?
YOU ARE READING
Fons
General FictionSidewalk. Lamp post. Void. Red eyes. White hair. Droid. In my. Rapid. Breaths. Pray tell. What comes. Next.
