Aicher found himself standing in a graveyard under a twilight sky. A chill wind, thick with the stench of decay, made him turn. There was a pale man behind him, wane and with sunken cheeks. When he saw Aicher’s face, his cataracted eyes lit up and he smiled. He reached out with both arms, white shroud slipping back and revealing shriveled arms.
“My son,” he said in a dusty voice.
“Father.” Aicher embraced the wan man. He felt bones beneath the old man's papery flesh.
“I’m so tired. I tried to come when you called, but it’s so difficult now.”