[ WP ] Someone has just received a check in the mail for an excess amount of money .

Part 1. 
 
 
 He thoughtlessly brushed a damp lock of hair from his eyes, then thoughtfully pulled the wig stretched across his scalp. He admired his work on the floor. An elderly woman, one who brings flashes of bitter sweet memories to the forefront. He shrugs them aside, no longer feeling like the owner of such images in his mind. A different life. A different time. 
 
 He glanced past the puddle that a moment ago seemed to never stop growing, but now seems so very still, it's ambition died the moment her heart grew cold. It seemed so significant and now pales in comparison, pathetic even, as if all the woman's life amounted only to becoming the centerpiece within this portrait of futility and fragility framed by... her inner-self made outer. 
 
 There on the floor, was what must have elated the woman so. She seemed distracted by this piece of paper, as if it shrugged off her mortal coils and lifted her from the ground. He remembers her hands raised and lowered, her jumping excitedly, the incessant high pitched noises of feminine joy escaping her just before her final breath escaped her. 
 
 It was a delightful turn of events, her last thought a happy one. She was made young again, briefly, but by what? His eyes flittered left to right across the paper. It was a letter from a magazine company, informing her of the prize she won from a contest she entered not so long ago after filling out the kind of thing that more oft' than not tumbles from magazines carelessly or simply dismissed with a turn of the page. A lot like this woman's life, the man reflected. He was sure to whoever knew her intimately, the few who won that prize, she was unique and priceless company -- - but as she forged her way through life people would turn the page on her. They would let her tumble out of their sight without a second glance or thought. 
 
 And just to stay true to that thought, he reapplied his wig and simply walked out of the front door to her home. 
 
 -- -- -- - 
 
 Part 2. 
 
 
 
 It brought tears to his eyes. He adjusted the glasses resting on his wrinkled face with a single finger, stifling a sad sniffle. Someone had entered the contest buried within the contents of the monthly journal he founded, one which dissected classical literature and one which as time grew on became ever more apparent how much of an acquired taste this was. Had n't this person been forewarned that their subscription would end as his company's legs finally gave out from beneath them? They could not afford to go on, and so this man's legacy would end with this last issue. 
 
 Then his eyes flittered up to the top of the note, the participants name `` Vanessa Star''. Could it be? He scoured his past internally, and was momentarily brought back to his youth. In the early 1950's, Southwestern Connecticut just outside of New York City. A coastline of industry, and obvious excess of entertainment for the working man... He sat in a corner booth of the Legs, a young man fresh from the service, torn within but untarnished without, aimless as his gaze until the curtains opened on stage... Her name, grumbled over a microphone as the announcer introduced her, ringing in his ears. 
 
 Even if it's not her, he had nothing much left to live for. He had already retrieved his old service weapon, a relic of the past, from it's lockbox previously sequestered in the attic. He had already liquidated most of his remaining funds after being forced to sell his home. He had became a casualty of yet another battle as he fought to keep his life's work afloat. He signed his name on a check, licked the adhesive on the envelope shut, sent it away with that warmest most heartfelt regards to his final reader. 
 
 And then he sent the contents of his skull away too.
