Your Knabino

Selling Ferdinand

Ferdinand, All that’s left of you sits before me on the wooden table, contained between the tattered covers of your worn journal. This is the first time I've seen the small, black book outside your arm's length. I'd been curious about the contents of your book since I first saw it, but I couldn’t gather the courage to inquire any further than a single sentence. I don't know how often you reflected on that night, but it sticks in my mind.