A conch shell

 His eyes hold mysteries. Centuries of hurt. Disguised by desire to extinguish anything posing the threat of exposing his humanity. A bandit who hides in shadows. Throwing his thoughts to the wind. Maybe he’d rather drink with you. But he can’t. So he aims for your head. His target. One shot. You’re dead. A haunt full of empty air like a conch shell on a fence post. 


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