He hid his red hair under a hat; his shoes clicked against cobbled streets.
The sun was rising over a misty April 18th. 5am ticked past.
Soon, fires would be dancing in his black eyes. Soon, the city would taste apocalypse. He smiled, warmed, at the thought, dropped the postcard into the green post box, and left.
'This was his fault, you know,' said Jacquel, days later, shaking his head, newspaper in hand, before the postcard had even reached Illinois. There was blood under his nails. The small cat curled up at his feet. Ibis said nothing. He was writing.