An old man is on his knees hunched over on the floor picking up small coins. There are forty-seven in all, each one signifying a year.
An open bottle of brandy, its contents spilling out, and an empty glass lay on the floor next to him.
A letter also lies there, face up, most of it is smeared and unreadable from tears and alcohol soaked into it. The bottom of the letter is legible enough, it reads:
“I’m sorry to leave you like this. We had a good forty-seven years you and I. Please take care of yourself when I’m gone.”