For the first time, the mirror he held up to life cracked. He had always seen himself as timeless, the exception to decay. But now, watching the old man rub his swollen knuckles, Vincent felt a stab of something unfamiliar—recognition. He was no longer pretending to be young. He was pretending not to be old.
His name echoed through the room. A nurse waved him in. Vincent stood slowly, every movement suddenly deliberate. His knees cracked as he rose, and he forced a chuckle, as if to keep things light. “Old pipes,” he mumbled to no one. But inside, his chest was tightening with unease.