It was perfect, the look in Calhoun’s eyes.
In that moment, Calhoun knew how it felt.
But what good is an accusation without proof?
Dresden’s word isn’t known for its credibility.
As he absently picks his guitar in the dying light of day,
Dresden whispers to the empty room,
“I’ll see you tonight, Calhoun.” I
t’s the ides of March.
It’s their birthday.
|<- sing a song of sixpence||a quiet evening in someone else’s home ->|