With that, the boy walked through the doorway and into the old man’s back room. He couldn’t help but marvel at all the little grow tents the old man had set up, with all the different strains of magic mushrooms growing amongst the mist. He admired them for a while, wondering if college was really the right path for him.

He heard the bell above the shop door ring, I’ll let him deal with the customer, he thought. He walked over to the old man’s prayer mat and sat down, crossing his legs, he lit a stick of incense before closing his eyes, placing his hands together as he began a sequence of deep breaths.

He started to clear his mind, thoughts of what college would be like, what working in the shop would be like, what he would miss out on if he decided to do either.

BANG!

His eyes opened suddenly as the echo of the gunshot rang throughout the entire shop. His heart started to beat rapidly as fear began to grip hold. He had no gun. He looked around for any sort of weapon he could use, wanting to yell for his grandfather, but not wanting to give away that he was there.

He had a similar feeling to the moment two years ago when that man had been shot in the alleyway of his grandmother’s house, helplessness. 

He listened closely for any sound of movement, holding his breath so he wouldn’t make a sound.

“Jovan.”

He heard the old man’s voice call to him. He rushed from where he was hiding out towards the front of the shop, the fear he felt had gone like a flame at the sound of his grandfather’s voice. 

He rushed out the door and into the hallway, at the front counter he saw the old man standing there, with a gun in his hand.

“Call the police.” The old man said, a sad look over his face as he turned his head to look down at the man on the floor. 

The boy looked over the counter to see the same man who came in two years prior to buy the crystal for his girlfriend. There was a large pool of blood growing from behind his head, and a rather large hole in the center of his forehead.

He looked disheveled, unlike the last time the boy had seen him. His clothes were tattered and dirty, his face unshaven with sores, he looked homeless. Laying next to the man was an old, battered revolver. 

The boy picked up the phone and dialed the police. 

“Hello? Yes, my grandpa just shot a man who was trying to rob us. Yes, it’s the Mystic Management shop downtown.”

As the boy gave the operator the details, the old man looked down at the gun.

He took the magazine out of the gun, as well as the bullet that was in the chamber. He cocked the gun back in the open position, and placed it on the table. He sat down on the stool, and began to cry. 

He did not sob. He did not cover his face with his hands. He did not wipe away his tears, nor did he hide them when his grandson looked over to him with concern.

He thought about the life he had taken, a life as precious as his own, how his actions of greed had possibly led this man to his demise by his hand, and he wept.

Next Chapter: The Son