He lived downstairs in the apartment between the mailboxes and the decades-expired fire extinguisher. Coral and I used to make up stories about him to entertain ourselves during the winter, when it was too cold outside. Once, he gave us each a sugar cookie. I never knew his name until I overhead the super tell mother that old Mr. Rudolph had died.
His frumpy, distracted daughter and her husband came to clean out the apartment a few days later. The husband looked annoyed at having been inconvenienced. I went outside and, without anyone seeing, busted his taillights with a rock.
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Title by: Alessandra C
Story by: David
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