[ WP ] You are a retired assassin . The only thing you want is to die . Keeping you from this is the fulfillment of your last contract : A celebrated performer paid you to kill him if he ever tried to make a `` comeback '' as an old man . After years in retirement , the performer announces a world tour .

( First prompt response. Getting back into writing after too long! ) 
 
 Assassins do n't retire. 
 
 They stop killing and die, or they die because they do n't stop killing. At forty five I felt at least ninety, so I imagined a peaceful retirement for myself and made it happen. Got a cabin in the woods, a companion in a dog named Rust, and all the time in the world. I lived off the land for six months before I realized I could n't stand living anymore. 
 
 Most of the people I had killed deserved it. But most is n't all, and the ones that did n't deserve it kept showing up when I was sleeping. And then I started seeing them when I was n't. Endless leisure time was suddenly far too much. 
 
 Everything was in order. Affairs settled, belongings given away, Rust with a new owner. All that was left to do was die. As it turns out though, killing other people is easier than killing yourself. A bullet in the brain always seemed the easiest way to go, but I just could n't get it done this time. 
 
 The evening I decided to stop living was the evening I got the worst news of my life. I was sitting on the edge of my bed, my rifle my only company, when someone knocked on the door. I looked at the gun and laughed. Maybe it was a higher power sending a messenger to tell me to live. 
 
 `` Ven? Ven, you home?'' It was n't a holy messenger. Just Sid, a local fur trapper. 
 
 `` Yeah,'' I shouted. Death would have to wait. 
 
 Sid was a tall shadow, the setting sun turning him into a silhouette that filled up the doorway. 
 
 `` Glad I caught you. A lady in town told me to give this to you. Said it was real important,'' Sid said. He stepped in and handed me a sealed envelope. 
 
 `` A lady?'' I asked before I saw the delicate shape of a bird in flight embossed on the wax seal. 
 
 He was telling me about the woman, but I only caught a few words. *Young. Pretty. Scary. * I could only focus on the seal and what it had to mean. Evaline, Sid's scary but young and pretty lady in town, knew that I was n't taking any new jobs. That could only mean one thing. 
 
 Not everything was settled after all. One piece of unfinished business was coming to collect. 
 
 `` You'll never believe this,'' Sid was saying. `` Moonstone is touring again. *Moonie! * I thought he was dead.'' Yeah, me too. 
 
 I cracked the seal. *Your debt is due* was written in Evaline's precise script. The novice assassin had never been overly fond of words. 
 
 If I had somehow forgotten about the debt, Sid was telling me everything I needed to know. He was going on about how Moonstone, the once famous and eccetric cellist and singer, was making what some were calling a `` comeback'' by dragging out his dusty cello and playing the old songs people had loved twenty years ago. Rumor had it that he was going to debut a few new songs along the way. 
 
 It was n't the has-been's music that mattered, but the signed contract I still had with him. In a locked box on the bottom of the trunk in my bedroom sat the paper that Moonie had drawn up for me in his prime. It was a simple request made by a man who had the foresight to understand that his fame could be fleeting, and that one day he might make the mistake of trying to reclaim it. 
 
 `` The old man made me promise to never let him do this,'' I said, interrupting Sid's gossip. It might have been the sudden comment that made Sid look concerned, but it was probably the vulpine smile I was giving the note. 
 
 Death could wait, indeed. 
 
 `` Hey, Sid? I was going to ask you tomorrow, but it's been lonely around here without Rust. Mind if I take the old guy back?''
