He wore a suit because he thought it made him look smartly unremarkable. It sat a little too broadly on his slight shoulders, a little too long at the cuffs.
The woman across the road watched him at the bus stop every day, gazing at the man who looked like he was hiding secrets in his pockets. He pushed his hands in and out of them. They remained consistently empty.
One day he caught her looking at him. Pulling a dove’s head from his pocket, he gave a windburned smile, his teeth like kindling.
Her scream was his magic trick.
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