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He sat on the back deck, watching the fog lift off the lake. There was no applause, no spotlight, and no one to impress. For the first time in decades, Elias wasn't part of the entertainment. He was just a man in a flannel shirt, finally listening to the music of his own breath. If you’d like to , let me know:

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Elias walked toward his brownstone, his joints echoing the rhythm of the pavement. At sixty-five, the "lifestyle"—the late nights, the liquid dinners, the constant hum of being seen —had started to feel like a costume that was two sizes too small. He sat on the back deck, watching the fog lift off the lake