Short Story

An Evening With Mr. Greybeard and Friends

            “The rules are very simple,” he said, with his old blue eyes behind a mountain of wrinkles. “Are you ready?”

            I nodded.

“You will not speak unless spoken to. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And you certainly will not ask questions. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“You will not utter a sound of what you hear today, for I will know, for we all will know, and, my son, that will not bode well. Do you understand?”

“…Yes, Sir.”

It wasn’t forceful: there were no pointed fingers or baleful tones lurking past the veil of his warm smile; and his frame, short and robust, was anything but alarming—for how could a man wearing a knitted red sweater, brown khaki pants, and with enough bushy grey hair that his face looked like a grey bird’s nest be alarming? The man was affable, affable as my mother (may she rest in peace), which made his words all the more ominous, for you expect portentous words from a man with beady eyes and slicked black hair—but not him.

“It is settled then. The others will be arriving shortly—at least I do hope so. Prepare four glasses of wine—red, rich with a slight burn on the tongue—and place them upon the round table over there. I would do it myself, but I have other things to attend to before this begins. Once again, I appreciate your aid, my good lad; you will be compensated for it considerably; I guarantee it.”

“As you wish, Sir.”

I bowed and began heading to the kitchen, only to stop myself. “Sir, where is your wine cellar?”

“Ah! Yes. My apologies, dear boy, proceed down the hall to the end, bear right, and head down the steps that will lead you to the basement; there, you will find a prodigious selection, I assure you.”

I felt a slight twinge of irritation. Dear boy, I thought.

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

There was a moment of silence between us, a heavy silence, one that the creaking and cracking of the wood floorboards could not withstand; it was a silence where a man debated breaking obedience, where a man must force confrontation. It truth it was a simple misunderstanding, one that, in my younger days, would have been disregarded with the wave of my hand and a roll of my eyes. But I was not in my younger days, and my tolerance for such petty things was at an end; in fact, it had been at an end nearly twenty years ago. That’s what happens when you get old: first you lose your patience, then you lose your body, and then finally your mind—well, that’s how it was for me. I never had much patience to begin with so it was expected; fortunately, my mind had yet to deteriorate, wit and sarcasm not withstanding.

I felt like I was back in the days of being a private in the war, obeying orders with such faultless loyalty that a man could forget he was a human. I was his subordinate that was true. I was his butler. But this was a one-time thing: I didn’t do this crap for a living; I couldn’t obey every whimsical musing of some old fool—patience, remember?  Perhaps I’m making a mountain out of a molehill, but regardless…I hate being called a “lad” or a “boy.” It may sound simple, and it may be petty, but, like being a Private, if you never made yourself known, if you never gave yourself an identity, you’d find out quickly you forgot who you were. Looking back, I hated the military—and not because of the bloody fighting. 

I phrased it carefully. “May I ask that you refrain from calling me ‘dear boy’ or ‘good lad’? I am nearly fifty-three: I have fought in two wars, fathered three children, and have been lucky enough for them to bear me grandchildren. It is a simple request, but I ask you to please abide by it.”

The old man put his hand over his mouth like a child, as his eyes went wide in shock, and his eyebrows, like feathers that were wild, thick, and grey, raised to the top of his head in dramatic fashion, forming wrinkles as deep and heavy as his eyes. “Please forgive me,” he said hastily. “It is a force of habit, you see. I call everyone that. It won’t happen again, my good Sir.” I bowed and headed in the direction of the wine cellar. A good man he was, I suppose, a bit absent-minded, but sweeter than my grandmother’s sweet tea…then again, I had just met the man.

I had seen his ad in a newspaper and was in need of some quick cash—as a war veteran you don’t get much in terms of jobs because most people think all you can do is hold a gun and shoot somebody—there was my pension, but a pension doesn’t allow a man to breath; it doesn’t allow a man to provide for his family. His ad hadn’t said much: “Butler needed for one evening only; will pay considerably; must be knowledgeable, accommodating, and patient; prior experience not necessary.” So I gave the guy a call, and here I was, and besides the creepy rules he had asked me to swear my oath to a few minutes ago, it hadn’t been that bad.

The wine cellar was cold and dark, the air crisp. Slowly, I limped along—my leg was injured in the second war, you see, bullet to the leg, and it’s never been the same since—and grabbed something from the last shelf on the last rack. I didn’t know what the hell it was; he wanted something rich and sharp, but I knew nothing about wines—strong liquors was my forte, strong and dark. I ascended back up the stairs and to the kitchen, grabbed four wine glasses, and began to pour.  

As the dark ruby liquid escaped from the bottle and settled gracefully in the glasses, I heard a knock on the door. Setting the bottle down, I walked around the large kitchen countertop and crossed from the tile to the wooden floorboards, where I took in Greybeard’s house. The place was as prodigious as it was picturesque: the living room was made of wood and stone—wood for the floors, the bookcases that held rows and rows of books, and the walls, and stone for the natural fireplace that was burning smoke up through the chimney—with a coffered ceiling as high as a lighthouse and chandeliers, circular and made of iron, which held candles that were wonderfully alight—how the old man was able to do that every morning was unfathomable, for Mr. Greybeard could barely walk. A few rugs in rich and calm colors lay a strewn here or there, under a coffee table and a blue loveseat. There were no pictures of friends or family, no television, but that did not matter, for even I felt at home here.

I passed under a wooden archway to face the front door: it was tall, wooden and wide, with a black iron handle and a painting made of stained glass engraved in it; the painting looked to be of a man kneeling in prayer, garbed in blue and violet, as his eyes raised to the shining rays of the sun. Suddenly, I realized that’s what this house was, why I felt so at home: it was an old church dressed up as a house. I did not ponder on my epiphany for long as three dark shadows hung behind the stained art within the door.   

Guests had arrived.

Pulling quickly on the handle, the door swung open, and before me were two men and a woman. I almost had to laugh, for they looked like a motley bunch: men and women from different lands, from different races and cultures coming together for a country—or in this case, God only knows what they were here for. One man was tall, almost as tall as the top of the doorframe and had skin as rich and dark as the wooden floors we were standing on; his nose was large and wide, and the same could be said for his red lips; but his eyes, though similar in proportion, were dark, almost black—much darker than his skin. The clothes he wore, I observed, were…peculiar, nothing but black robes and sandals, and a white rope tied round his waist, acting sort of as a sash. A monk, I had to guess, at least he appeared that way: he was calm and kept his hands under the sleeves of his robes as he bowed and made his way past me without a word.

Next came the second man, a suave capitalist and professional if I had to guess; he nodded in his black suit and tie, moving elegantly past me with a perfunctory smile. Everything about him was thin: his frame, his eyes, his nose, and his lips. He wasn’t good looking, and he wasn’t ugly. He wasn’t tall, and he wasn’t short. I immediately took a disliking to him: there was something about the way the deep sets of his eyes cast a shadow in the light, something in how he carried himself. The smile was contemptuous, as if I was nothing more than a bug under his boot… I always hated people like that, ever since I was a small boy. My mother and father would work for every penny that they could scrounge up until a different kind of dirt appeared under their nails, one that wouldn’t wash away, a dirt made of grit, of steel, of long hours away from home and exhaustion. You didn’t get that being rich, and you didn’t get it being entitled. I never minded other folks, other children, having more money than me, but it was the ones who thought they were entitled to it that drove me nuts. This man thought he was entitled. No one is entitled to anything, and this world is far from fair—more great lessons from war, I suppose.

Mr. Slick left a stench of cologne as he trotted past me. Resisting a cough, I muttered, “For the love of Pete,” and heard a schoolgirl giggle come from the woman still standing in the doorway. She was a pretty thing, I had to admit, a real wisp of a woman. She had a slender appearance to her, but her beauty was not ostentatious; it was sweet, humble. With her head reaching the bottom of my shoulders, her stubby nose and blue eyes looked up at me with her round, pale face. Crossing her arms, the red hair, loose and lank, like wine, fell over them delicately. But she wasn’t delicate. She carried herself with the sort of silent conviction that was rare to find; I had seen it before in a few great men and women in my lifetime, but not often.

Her clothes were simple: a flannel shirt over a white t-shirt, a pair of jeans, and some work boots that were muddy around the edges. She had to be about thirty or so years old, maybe a little older—I couldn’t tell age much anymore; Mr. Slick looked to be forty and Mr. Monk had to be nearly sixty or seventy, but it was truly anyone’s guess.

“Mocking the guests are not appropriate for the butler,” she said wryly.

I grunted and shifted my weight to my good leg. “Laughing isn’t either,” I said matter-of-factly.

            The woman smiled and I couldn’t help but smile back.

“Michelle!” Mr. Slick yelled from behind me. “Let’s go. We don’t have much time.”

I stepped aside and motioned with my hand for her to come through. She hurried past me and I took a moment to gaze upon the dark sky before me: as if night had fallen into the dying red sun, the sky looked obscurely surreal, a dream in which no color existed except for deep blues, reds, and greys. A howl came from outside, and I wondered if it was the wind or a wolf raging deep within the forest (the house was in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by trees upon trees and grass upon grass). Either way, the storm was approaching, the heat tangible beyond words.

Closing the door, I quickly followed the one called Michelle to the kitchen and placed the four glasses of wine upon a silver tray (I suppose I actually have to do my job today).

Motioning with one hand, I lead them out of the kitchen and through two wooden double doors into a room that must have been Mr. Greybeard’s study. There wasn’t much: more books, a desk, and a round table with four chairs. Mr. Greybeard was there busy tidying up.

“Do come in!” he said with eyes alight. “It is good to see you all again. How are we?”

“Fine,” Mr. Slick said tersely, as if the words were too much trouble, and sat down with a heavy sigh.

“Don’t be in such a rush, Gabe, or we won’t have time to enjoy the wine,” Michelle said and smiled. “How are you, Ralph? It is so good to see you, too!”

The woman ran over to Mr. Greybeard and gave him an adoring hug.

“I’m fine, dear. It is such a pleasure to see you once more. How many years has it been?”

“Too many, I’m afraid.”

After they separated, Ralph turned to Mr. Monk and said, “And you, Auriel. I’m hoping things are well?”

Mr. Monk grinned warmly and said, “As well as it can be, Ralph. It is good to see you.”

“Ah. Good to see you, old friend. Gabe,” he said, putting his hands on his hips. “Brighten up, my boy, or your face will permanently be set like that.”

At this, even Mr. Slick stood, smiled, and hugged Mr. Greybeard. “It is good to see you, old man.”

At this, Ralph hooted like a man who had drank too much. “That’s more like it—now should we get started?”

I set the silver tray on the round table and turned to go, only to hear a voice say, “Wait a moment. Who is the new guy?”

New guy?

“Ah, yes,” Ralph said. “This is the new butler—”

“Roy,” I said, “Roy Wellington.”

“Have you informed him of the rules?” Mr. Slick asked.

“Of course. He knows.” Mr. Greybeard nodded to me.

“Yes. Don’t ask questions. Speak only when spoken to. And do not repeat a word of what I hear—sounds like the military.”

No one laughed.

“Did you serve long?” Mr. Slick asked.

“Yes. Two wars.”
            “That must have been hard on your family,” Michelle said.

“It was…for a time.” I suddenly felt a sinking feeling in my heart.

“What do you mean?”

A tinge of frustration irked at me: I had just met these people and they wanted to know my life story. It was audacious, rude; it was arrogant.

“Frankly, Mr. Auriel, it is none of your business.”

I didn’t get the reaction I expected, for the man called Mr. Auriel smiled and said, “I like him, Ralph. Good choice. Nice to meet you, Roy.”

I returned it with a nod. “Anything else, Sir?”

“Not at the moment, no, but do start the chicken in the oven and return immediately; we are about to get started.”

“Right away, Sir.”

When I returned, the fireplace had been lit and the four of them were seated at the round table, staring at one another in silence. The second I entered, Mr. Greybeard rose from his chair and came towards me. Pulling on the wooden doors, he closed them shut and said, “Sit down in the chair over there, dear—I mean, Roy. And good, you brought the bottle of wine; keep our cups full until the chicken is ready.” Without warning, his eyes furrowed and voice became very grave, “Remember, Roy… Remember my rules.”

“Yes, Sir,” I said a bit perplexed and took my seat in the chair across from them, still holding the bottle of red wine.

With the door closed, the chicken in the oven, and the wine on the table, they were ready to begin, and suddenly, as if the comeliness of the house—with its burning candles, wood floors and deep colored rugs—had been sucked dry, I felt a tautness in the room, a tautness that comes when life and death are on the line, when a commander gets the courage to send his soldiers into a place where he knows they aren’t coming back. Whatever was going on here couldn’t be life and death…could it?

“It is time once again, my good friends, to discuss the matter at hand and come to a decision once more,” Ralph said with a sad smile. “It will be a long night, and I fear every time we do this, every time we discuss this, the wrinkles grow ever stronger upon my face, and my heart ever heavier; but alas, we must begin.”

“We will go around the table; each will say their words and then there will be a discussion, and then, by midnight, a decision must be made. Do we all understand the terms?” Ralph eyes flashed across the round table.

            Everyone nodded.

            “Who wants to begin?”

            Mr. Slick took a large swig of his wine and sighed, the demeanor suddenly changing from the haughty to a quiet sadness.

“I suppose I shall go first,” he said with reluctance. “As you know, in my part of the world, I see things that cannot be described, and that can only be hidden when eyes choose not to see. What I see, what I am forced to gaze upon day after day are the shadows of men—their dark side. I see pestilence, genocide, the killing of innocent men, women and children, and all the devils in between. I see too much of it. I’ve seen too much. Too much. This world burns with such ignorance and hatred, my friends. And it is a fire that cannot be put out. It is a fire, I’m afraid, that will only continue to grow. There is no end to it, for I have tried to find ways to stop it, to find people worthy, but from where I watch, all I find are men succumbing to the most diabolical wills and instincts. It must end. It must. That is where I stand.”

The words fell they way bombs did in the wars—with a quake that rose from the soles of your feet to your bowels, where it played the puppet master to your intestines, and finally, to your head, where it rattled what was left of your skull, causing a deafness in my ears that still hadn’t faded. It was truly a quake, a rumbling. What had I gotten myself into? Who were these people? And what did he mean when he said in my part of the world. I had so many questions, questions that I swore I would not ask. And so, despite myself, despite the burning curiosity and kindling fear slowly rising, I held my tongue, waiting for what would come out of the next person’s mouth.

Mr. Greybeard peeked in my direction and then said, “Alright, who wants to go next?”

“I suppose that will be me,” Mr. Monk said, arms still under his robes. “Unfortunately, I tend to agree with Gabe: my people…in the world I watch over… there is goodness; there is tranquility. But it is fleeting. Greed and envy and selfishness grow like weeds in a dying green grass of purity. I do not wish it to be so, and I do not wish for the outcome that I propose, but there is an inevitability here: I am not my brother’s keeper wasn’t simply words upon which a foolish man lied; they were a portent that heralded this from the beginning. What must we expect from beings so flawed that they strive for power instead of doing what is good and just. They are all the same. The suffering of this world cannot be undone much like water cannot flow upstream. It must end. It must. That is where I stand.”

Who is all the same? What did he mean when he said these beings? Were they not human? I laughed inside my head. That just isn’t possible… is it? And just what in God’s name were they making a decision on? I had to say something. I couldn’t just sit here and listen to something so mysterious and ominous without making one utterance. What must end? What?

I rose from my chair with the bottle of wine and walked slowly over to the table. Everyone leered at me, as if waiting for me to speak, half-expecting it; I said nothing, and cursed myself for it. The silence was daunting and the awkwardness grew as I poured more wine into their cups.

As I headed back towards the lone chair across from them, Mr. Greybeard coughed and said, “You may speak freely if you’d like, Roy.”

He had given me a chance, a chance to ask questions and get answers. He had given me what I wanted. But suddenly, my gut told me to wait, for as much I wanted to speak, I had only gathered fragments of the true story. Wait, I told myself, wait until I hear the others speak before I say anything. I must wait.

With a slow turn and a stirring in my guy, I said, “…. I believe the food is ready, Sir.”  Bowing, I opened the double wooden doors and headed for the kitchen. Grabbing the chicken from the oven, I prepared the meal, buying myself some time to think: I hadn’t been ready to speak; I hadn’t heard all the pieces yet. But whatever they were deciding on didn’t sound good.

I’m a man of morals: my mother was selfless as a saint and my father was a hard-nosed catholic; with him, there was no grey, only black and white—either you did or you didn’t and whatever you did or you didn’t do made who you are. He had a point, though I tended to disagree on some level: there were shades of grey; in the wars, nothing was black and white—nothing was grey either—just different shades of red. Regardless, the people in that room were debating on the death of something, and I had yet to find out if my morals would allow it. It didn’t bloody matter that I wasn’t a part of their discussion: I was in the room and I had ears—they shouldn’t expect a man like me to stay silent; then again, they didn’t know me. I laughed silently to myself: maybe I shouldn’t have called Mr. Greybeard for this job; I never was good at being a Private.

Pulling a cupboard open, I snagged a larger silver tray and placed four plates filled with chicken, broccoli, and mash potatoes onto it. Slowly, I hobbled back through the wooden doors, carrying the silver tray and holding the bottle of wine.

Mr. Greybeard stood. “Thank you, Roy. Would you like some chicken yourself? There is plenty left.”

“No thank you, Sir. I seemed to have lost my appetite.” A subtle jab—okay, maybe not-so-subtle jab at their little causerie of death—but I did not care. And my words did not go unnoticed: Mr. Slick and Mr. Monk raised their heads from the table like startled wolves and Michelle pursed her lips so tightly together water couldn’t slip through them. And I could see in Mr. Greybeard’s eyes that he got my “subtlety” as well, loud and clear. 

“That’s a shame,” Mr. Slick said with a sneer.

“No matter,” I said, as I drained the last drops of wine into their glasses. “I’ll grab something after.”

The night went on and dinner commenced. Rain started to fall heavily upon the house, and I couldn’t help but smile, listening to the hurtling of the tiny clear comets crash into the roof; a trickling quickly followed, as the water slide down the tin gutters and onto the grass. No one spoke as they ate; no one even looked up from their plates. But once the food was consumed, Mr. Greybeard wasted no time in continuing the enigmatic discussion.

“It comes to me then,” he said. “Auriel… Gabe… you see all the hurt in the world and nothing good about it. Must you not concede that what you propose is most extreme? To say that this must end—all of it—because Man consumes in the fallacies of the flesh is much too narrow of mind. This is expected. What is the triumph is that some men and women achieve something more and do good in this world—should all that go to waste? Is that what you truly believe? Have you become so hopeless what these humans have to offer that you are willing to sacrifice that? Unfortunately, my friends, I have made matters more complicated, as I disagree with what you have said. This should not end. Not yet. That is where I stand.”

I no longer heard the rain. I no longer heard the howling wind or cracking thunder. What I could only hear was my breaths, heavy and forced. My head suddenly felt a sense of vertigo, or perhaps mere delirium from what had just been spoken. I was in a room with beings that didn’t consider themselves humans. “These humans,” he had said. And what was “The end?” I knew. I didn’t want to admit to myself, but in the depths of my brain it hid, and, much like when I was a child checking for monsters, I had to look in the dark closet; I had to pull open the closed door. But I just couldn’t. I couldn’t say those words, even if they were only in my head.

Michelle flipped her red hair back and looked at me as if she knew my thoughts; at this point, it wouldn’t surprise me if she did. I stared at her with fortitude, thinking if she could hear every word I thought then she would know I wouldn’t let anyone leave this room if they meant harm to someone—my parents and their moral compass, remember? At that, Michelle smirked, her pink lips curving slyly before she returned her eyes to the table.

“There isn’t much left to say,” she said. “I am afraid we are at a crossroads, gentlemen. My thoughts are with Ralph’s: there is still much good to be done in this world. They have come such a long way and to take that from them now is foolish.”

“Foolish?” Mr. Slick interjected. “Where you see improvement, I see failure. They have failed to stop genocide, to stop rape, murder; to stop persecution and discrimination—and it has been centuries. You’d expect it from a race as old as an infant, but they have grown; they have aged, but they have not matured. They are still as petty as they were when they were children.”

Michelle replied, “You have always been known for your cynicism, Gabe, but what you propose is cruelty.”

“Is it any more cruel than what they have done to one another—and will continue to do? You’re too soft, Michelle.”

“Excuse me?” she said, her voice suddenly piercing the stillness between the four. “May I remind you with whom you are speaking to, Gabriel.”

Gabriel?

“Wait a minute…” I whispered.

“Please, Michelle,” Mr. Greybeard said, “Gabriel, I know this is a heated discussion but we must stay objective. A decision must be made. And it must be made soon.”

The old man pointed to the clock. It was nearly eleven: one hour left.

They debated while I put the pieces together. I didn’t bother wondering if this was real, if I was dreaming and I would wake in my bed alone in a cold sweat, or if this was some absurd prank being pulled on me. I worked with what I had, with what I knew; it wasn’t much, but it was enough. At the realizations I made, my hands started to tremble; my palms and forehead began to sweat; my stomach churned with terror. I didn’t bother questioning my conclusions, for regardless of whom they were—or what—I knew one, absolute fact: two of them wanted to end the human race.

The debate had turned to a cacophony (I had stopped listening a long time ago; so much for being objective) and it was nearly ten minutes to midnight. Slowly, I stood and put my weight on my good leg. I had been quiet in my rising, unlike the chaos in my head, but no matter, somehow they heard the movement, and quickly, all four of them stopped their bickering and stared.

Mr. Greybeard cleared his throat. “Ah...Roy, I—”

“Save it,” I said. “I’m not abiding by your rules any longer—how can you expect me to? You’re angels aren’t you?”

They exchanged quick glances but said nothing.

“Gabriel. Raphael. Uriel. But my catholic schooling never taught me about an Angel named Michelle.”

She smiled a smile as if impressed. “What angels do you know that start with ‘M’?”

Quizzically, I said. “…Michael.”

“Close enough.”

“You’re Michael,” I said, baffled. “You threw…you’re the one that…”

“Yes…what is it, Roy?”

“I thought you were—”

“A man? Yes, I get that a lot. There were some problems translating the word of our Father to humans.”

I had to laugh. “How the hell could they get that wrong?”

“You’d be surprised. . .” she said.

She stood in front of the rest of them, arms crossed. “You must have questions.”

“No, just one: how often do you do this? How often has it been since you last saw one another?”

“In your time, the turn of the last century. We get caught up doing other things.”
            “You meet every 100 years?”

“Yes.”

I cleared my throat and wiped the sweat from my brow. I had been in trenches taking bullets. I had watched friends die while somehow I had managed to scrape away. I had faced death itself and lived. But it was more than that: as you get older, you lose the fear of being wrong; you lose the fear of what people think; you lose all the fear that held you back when you were younger. I had always been a man of faith, but I wasn’t about to show them fear. I had never been one of those children who feared God and his angels. And I wasn’t now: I was going to say what I wanted to say.

“You meet every hundred years to decide the fate our lives?”

They nodded.

“Arrogant,” I muttered.

“What was that?” Gabe asked.

 I shouted, “It’s arrogant! Do you feel emotion?”

            They shook their heads.

            “Then you don’t know…you don’t know what it’s like to suffer, to have to live in this world; you don’t know true pain or sadness, to watch your best friend die in combat or to watch helplessly as your wife succumbs to cancer…do you?”

Silence.

“No, I didn’t think so,” I said, tearing up at the thought of my late wife. “You don’t know suffering. And worse, you don’t know bliss or true happiness; you don’t know what it’s like to feel your baby in your arms for the first time, or see your child do something you couldn’t. You can talk about it. You can judge it. But you can’t understand it. So yes… you arrogant, pretentious beings who sit here every 100 years debating on the fate of lives you can’t possibly understand…”

I started to pace.

“You talk about genocide, about rape, murder, persecution and discrimination. And you talk about there being good people left in this world, but you don’t truly grasp it. The bad of many does not outweigh the good of the few, because those good people have lives, have families, and have struggles that you can’t possibly imagine; they push through every day—sometimes those days are good and sometimes those days are horrible. But they do it anyway because they don’t have a choice.”

“Why? Why do they do it?” Mr. Monk asked.

“…It’s simple: they want to live.” I set the wine bottle down. “Now, it’s midnight. I’m going to leave this house, get in my car, go to bed, and forget this ever happened. I’m going to wake up tomorrow and I’m going to go about my day, see my kids, visit my wife’s grave, and do the things that I have to do, though they may not be what I want to do.”

I went to the wooden doors and pulled on the handle, but before I turned and walked out I said Mr. Greybeard, “Thank you for your time, Sir. It’s been an interesting evening.” And with that, I headed through the front door and out into the rain.

***

That morning I woke up in my bed, my head dizzy and my mouth dry. As I reached for the glass of water on my nightstand, my hands knocked a letter to the floor. It read:

Dear Roy,

We agreed. The bad of the many do not outweigh the good of the few. We will continue to monitor this world, but we no longer will leave its fate up to us. It’s up to you, you and every other being on this Earth. You can either destroy it or you can save it. Good Luck,

Regards,

Michelle.