I


Maybe it was for the best, thought Michael Taylor, who stood over the wet burial ground where Mr. Jameson lay. He taught me a lot, and I didn’t even thank him. He wasn’t an emotional wreck…at least not on the outside.

His mind was in turmoil, however. How could this man, wise and generous as he was, leave Michael alone with so many questions left unanswered? He left without a word; no goodbye, no note…nothing. Michael’s parents had told him that it was for the best, but he didn’t believe it until now. It rang in his heart, echoed even, that he would never be able to learn from him again.

Mr. Jameson was a man of many antiquities to his personality. His warm smile was a reminder of the good old days before the technological era came around. It was just as well, seeing as the same smile reminded Mr. Jameson of those same times. He often reminisced about what it was like before those “Doggone computers took over the world.” How everything was simpler and where people actually looked each other in the eye when trying to talk with their partners or friends. Yeah, they were the times where things weren’t so complicated, and everybody got along.

In his late seventies already, Mr. Jameson had retired from his job as a small business owner into his summer home in Georgia. That’s how Michael met him. He moved to the old abandoned cottage next to his parent’s two-story manor…or at least, that’s what all of the neighbors called it. It was a big house, to be sure, but Michael never thought of it to be as great as people made it out to be. It was an old house from colonial times that seemed to be worn out, peeling, and even had slight termite damage.

All of these things made Michael wish that he had lived somewhere else, but his parents wouldn’t dare move out of a generational house such as this one. So he was stuck, it seemed, and nothing was going to be sweeter than going to college to get away from this run down place.

Michael was the epitome of the modern teenager: moody, apathetic, and always ready to challenge all authority that dared to question his irrational intellect, even if his answer or opinion wasn’t always the right one. He later figured that if he argued anymore, he’d just get shot down again due to his age and lifestyle; so he quit arguing with adults other than his parents.

They didn’t understand who he really was.

His love life was the most stable of his turbulent life, for he had seen the same girl for about a year and a half. Everything else was just a tempest that his ship got caught in. His friends tried to cheer him up, but most of the time he was too “emo” to reason with. It was for the best, they thought.

“Why does my life suck?” He often complained to his parents. “Why can’t we have better things like everybody else?”

The same answer that he always got was: “You’ll find that you’ll actually be thankful for what you have someday.” What a load of crap for Michael’s thoughts. He wanted more. After all, he was sixteen: the perfect age to start dreaming big.

On days where his parents and his friends became even more unbearable than usual, he would go to the cottage, climb up the slightly rusted ladder, and sit on the roof of the structure to gaze out into the horizon, hoping and wishing that something good would come along in his life.
At night, when the sun was slowly sinking into the Earth for a goodnight’s sleep, he turned his gaze towards the stars. “How liberating,” he often said to himself, “to know that the stars are the most carefree things in the universe.” He wanted to become a star, shining in the distance and not a care in the world other than to shine.

Even in the days where he was as happy as a clam, he would sit on the roof of that cottage. Those times though, he hung out with his girlfriend, gazing out and dreaming together on the spot that they would cherish forever. They talked about their future, their current lives, and even what they hated about the school’s lunches earlier that day.

On one particular day, they decided to serve what seemed to be meatloaf, but they both complained of it having a tofu-like flavor. Needless to say, they both had a laugh over it until they were sore in the ribs. Yep, it was certainly a good spot.

For now though, Mr. Jameson took his cottage, thus taking his favorite spot, leaving him with nowhere to turn to when things got weird or out of hand at his house.


He wanted to beat the old man down to the ground for taking his solace, but he realized that it wouldn’t be justified. After all, it wasn’t the old man’s fault that he had to retire back to the place. Michael just wished that he would’ve chosen a different location to retire to. Just what he needed: one person to take the one place that he found the least amount of pain from the world.

“Why did he retire there?” Michael argued. “That’s the only place I have to get away from all the crap in my life.”

His mother didn’t really seem to care, but she knew when her son was upset. “If you like that place so much, why don’t you spend it with the old man? You could learn a thing or two from people like that.”

“It’s true you know,” Said Michael’s dad, “I remember when I was younger––”

“Dad, enough with your stories, please!” Michael interrupted his own dad. “Besides, he’s really old. He could drop dead at any moment if he saw what I looked like. It wouldn’t be fair to him, and I’d feel guilty about the old man afterwards.”

“Michael, don’t you dare say that!” His mother shouted.

He did have a point. An old-fashioned man such as Mr. Jameson wouldn’t dare dream of acquainting himself with a kid who had 14 gauges on his ears, or had long and shaggy, but well-kept hair, or whose idea of good music was the stuff that included blazing guitar riffs and ultra-fast double-bass drumbeats. A kid such as Michael had no right to go up to an old man without scaring him half to death. A demon, he’d be called most likely.

The look in his mother’s eyes drew his attention, which caused him to humor her. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, talking to an old man and helping him move into his place. At least he’d be at the cottage. And who knows? Maybe the old man would’ve let him sit on the roof for a while into the night if he did a good job with moving and unpacking things. It would be good for him, and good for the old man: a win-win either way.

“You know what, mom? He might actually need at least a little help with moving things, so I figure…why not go over there tomorrow when he comes, and move some things for him? You know, like a mover would do, only free of charge. What do you say?”

“Great!” She said ecstatically. “Be there by twelve o’clock.”

Michael agreed, and soon he was snoozing comfortably that night.



II

The moving van showed up earlier than most people expected it to be…it came early enough to wake Michael up from his dreams. He was angered slightly, but when he realized that it was the old man’s stuff in the moving truck, he hesitantly got up and went downstairs.

He knew that he was only doing this to get his spot back, but it just didn’t seem right to him to try and take advantage of the old man like that. Dreams did that to him a lot; they showed him things about himself that he desperately needed to change. He was tired of it, though not so much after he finally got some exercise done.

He ran from his room in a hurry, almost stumbling past the last flight of steps. His parents weren’t too pleased with this excitement because they feared that he’d trip, fall, and not be able to help out Mr. Jameson with his items as he’d promised he’d do.

“Careful Michael,” his dad roared at him, “you could’ve killed yourself there.” Typical dad, always thinking an accident is going to kill his son. So much for teaching him that pain is only a perception like every man should know.

“Calm down dad,” Michael reasoned with him. “That step needs to be fixed anyways. I’m just gonna grab a breakfast snack and head over to the old man’s in a bit.”

“Well this ‘old man’ is named Mr. Jameson,” His mother said. “And he couldn’t be any nicer. He’s so sweet and caring…he reminds me of your grandpa…” She stopped as soon as she saw the look of scorn on Michael’s face.

She hadn’t mentioned his grandfather in a long time, and she had tried to make it a habit of not ever mentioning it while Michael was living there. He was still feeling regret, and she could understand why. After all, what happened was a tragedy in any sense, although she felt that Michael wasn’t at fault for it. He constantly said that he was the one to blame, but nobody even tried to reason with him.

“Mom please,” he’d often say, “Don’t go there…not this time.”

She dropped the subject immediately and gave him his snack from out of the microwave. He ate it up voraciously, as if he’d been stuck in a prison camp with absolutely no food for months. After it had settled in his stomach, he went outside, and over to his right to meet up with Mr. Jameson, hoping to get the job that he was looking forward to.

He got to the truck and waited for the drivers to stop unloading things and finish putting them on the front yard, where Mr. Jameson had told them to put it in case anybody wanted to help. An unusual setup, but it seemed to work. After all, it was all in plain view, and Mr. Jameson didn’t have to do anything other than tell people where to put things. He certainly couldn’t do it due to his arthritis, but he liked to help with smaller things here and there. Michael was going to be his next helper, whether he wanted him to or not however.

As Michael arrived at the field of antiques, he soon realized whom he was going to be offering his services to. Mr. Jameson was a short, portly man in his late seventies, wearing bifocals and a flannel t-shirt. His jeans definitely came from the fifties, and even though he held a cane, he seemed to have just enough strength to walk without it. Of course, Michael only did see him walking across his porch once…or twice? He couldn’t remember; he wasn’t paying much attention at the time.

Either way, Mr. Jameson definitely noticed Michael walking over to his cottage. At first, he thought he was only seeing things, being tricked by the blazing sun in the middle of a July day. He thought he’d never see the day when a teenager, much less one as “appealing” as Michael, came over to his cottage. He’d seen teens before, but not one such as Michael. It almost frightened him, but he learned long ago to accept people for who they are.

“Are you Mr. Jameson?” Michael yelled out to the porch.

“I am,” Mr. Jameson said, grunting slightly not out of hesitation, but out of having had too much to eat earlier. “What do you want, kid?”

“I…” Michael was lost for words. What would he say to the old man? He wanted his spot, but how to say that? “I figured that…you might need some help over here with your stuff.”
Mr. Jameson was partially stunned by what was said: a teen helping out an old man? Impossible! Today’s society has put standards on old people that teens seemed to believe very closely, thus having them avoid old people as much as possible.

Maybe he was there to rob him of something. After all, teens have stereotypes as well. Mr. Jameson thought that Michael either hit the bottle too hard or experimented and lost to something bad during his lifetime. It was definitely unusual, but he did need help with his stuff, so he figured that Michael would be sufficient help.

“Well, I guess people have told you about my arthritis huh?” He said, chuckling to himself afterwards. Michael laughed as well. “I guess you can start by…uh…moving that box over there into the living room.” He pointed towards the item in question.

Michael saw which box he was pointing to. It was the one that was labeled “hobbies.” It was a little bit unusual, but not uncommon to see anyways. He went to it, picked it up carefully and hesitantly (it was heavier than he realized it would be) and went through the front screen door into the old cottage’s living room to place it somewhere.

The interior was nothing like the outside, much to Michael’s surprise––for he’d only climbed the outside, never once thinking about looking inside the place. Even though it was practically empty, it was all in good condition. The walls looked freshly painted with a sandy-yellow finish, the linoleum floors bore not even a tiny scratch, and the windows seemed as if they didn’t even have glass at all. It was a haven compared to the shamble that was the outside.

The other movers had helped him move other things into the house. Mr. Jameson oversaw everything, especially what Michael was doing. He had a sinking feeling that Michael was doing this to benefit himself, but he couldn’t figure it out immediately. However, the warm smile on Michael’s face made the old man happy. He’d never seen a teen working so hard and so happily for someone who could barely keep his own cane up without being in pain.

Mr. Jameson was definitely pleased with all of this.



III

After everything had been unpacked and settled in, Michael was sweating and tired. He’d moved some heavy things, walked at least a quarter-mile back-and-forth from the front yard to the upstairs room, and nearly sprained his shoulders carrying the massive king-sized bed into the small room on the top floor. But through it all, Michael was definitely satisfied with himself. It was an odd feeling at first.

Mr. Jameson was equally pleased. The kid had helped him better than the movers ever could’ve done all by themselves. Now he was sitting in his kitchen with his hardwood oak table, reading the headlines on the newspaper. Michael sat down across from him, tired, red and sweating.

“You want a drink, kid?” The old man asked sincerely.

“Yes please!” Michael said, panting slightly.

“Help yourself. As soon as you put the fridge in, I snuck in some water bottles. They should be cold by now.”

Michael turned around, opened the fifties style fridge, and grabbed the nearby water bottle in the door. He opened it and drank about half of the one liter bottle in one swig. It splashed on his face and down his shirt. It felt great.

“Hah!” Mr. Jameson laughed. “I worked you pretty good, didn’t I?”

“Yeah…what’s in that first box? That’s what got me down first. Are there books in there or something?”

“Yep. There are a few books in there. Mostly ones that I wrote.”

“You write? That’s pretty cool.”

“I’ve been writing ever since I was your age. It’s my number one hobby.”

“I don’t really have a hobby. I just hang out with my friends and that’s about it.”

This shocked Mr. Jameson a little. Here’s a teen, strong and fit, uniquely outfitted, and he doesn’t even have a hobby? No teen goes through life without a hobby. Whether it was video games or skateboarding in Mr. Jameson’s experience, all teenage boys have a hobby that they enjoyed. He was intrigued though, and so he asked him about it.

“No hobby? Well that’s interesting. You don’t like to do anything in your spare time?”

Oh great, thought Michael. Now I have to tell him about the rooftop. He didn’t want to, because the old man would’ve probably thought that Michael was only using him for the spot in question. Avoid the question! Don’t tell him about it! Just play it cool and maybe you can work something out with him. He didn’t want to make things bad, but inevitably, something had to be said.

“What’s in that box labeled ‘Hobbies’?” He finally managed to ask Mr. Jameson.

“Oh that old thing?” He said to Michael. “That’s just stuff from a long time ago. You can open it up and take a look if you want. I was going to sell most of it later anyways.”

Michael enthusiastically went over to the sinking living room, grabbed his house keys, and tore apart the tape sealing the box. He opened the box rapidly, and began digging for whatever was inside of it.

Books, journals, writing pads…all of them had writing on them too. The books were Mr. Jameson’s written work, and his journals held dozens of poems and short stories within their bindings.

He was definitely a good writer, but Michael had never heard of him. He read a lot of books, but not once did he find the name “Jameson” along the shelves of the bookstores. Stephen King, J.K. Rowling, Tom Clancy…no Edwin Jameson among those established writers. Maybe he didn’t get published, or maybe he tried but failed at getting published by anybody important.

“You…you write?” Michael shouted from the living room into the kitchen.

“I wrote,” Mr. Jameson refuted. “but I don’t anymore. It just doesn’t interest me like it used to. Why? You wanna read some of my stuff?”

Michael looked at some of the titles for the books for a good read. Fraction of a Second, Death Manor, Visions, Wellness, and Murder…they all sounded like titles that Michael absolutely loved to read. He nodded at the Mr. Jameson, and soon he got an idea in his head to take the entire box over to his house to read up on some of the very interesting and very gripping stories and books that came out of the mind of Edwin Jameson.

“Sure!” Michael said excitedly. “I love these types of books! Can I take the entire box with me? At least I’ll have something to read over the summer since school’s going to be over in a few days.”

“At least you like to read,” Mr. Jameson said as he got up from the table. “Every other teen I know never liked to read. They’d call you a nerd if you do like to read. But listen to me son: no matter what people call you, you’re never what they say you are. You are what you choose to be, and that’s that!”

Michael pondered this, but brushed it off. He’d heard the exact same speech told to him dozens of times from his parents, so why did this one have to be any different?

“I’ve heard that old joke before,” Michael said in a low voice. “I’m nobody, and that’s that.”

Mr. Jameson took what Michael said into consideration, and suggested something interesting to Michael’s ears. “Look in the first journal you see, and you should find a poem explaining how I felt when I was a kid.”

Michael saw the journal and picked it up. He started looking inside it as he approached the cottage porch area, but then he heard something shrill and high-pitched piercing his ears.

“Michael!” it was his mother shouting. “Come home, it’s time for dinner!”

“I’ll be right over!” Michael shouted back from the porch. “Well I gotta go Mr. Jameson. I’ll see you tomorrow, though.”

“Okay Michael,” Mr. Jameson responded, extending his hand. He would’ve spoken more, but a coughing fit halted his progress. Michael shook his hand anyways, took the box of books, and headed back to his house.

He had some serious reading to do, along with some catching up.



IV

Stories of murder, mystery, thrill-rides, and even supernatural haunting were filling Michael’s thoughts all through the summer. He had visited and revisited the far-off lands where mystery both threatened and enlightened people of all races, shapes, and ages. Mr. Jameson truly knew how to write a gripping story. Even his short stories and poems were fascinating to Michael.

The poems were about dark things, but yet there were some positive ones in there, which Michael didn’t seem to mind at all. The short stories were usually about a man killing himself because of either turmoil in his life or dying due to some supernatural event that had plagued the narrator for some time.

Michael was hooked on every single one of these stories, but he soon finished them all in the course of a month. He was satisfied though, in knowing who Mr. Jameson was a long time ago.

But something plagued Michael constantly. Why did these books never get published? They were good enough, so why leave them to collect dust somewhere? It didn’t make sense to him, so he decided to go and ask Mr. Jameson about it.

He decided to walk over to Mr. Jameson’s house again. He’d been there back and forth, visiting the old man for either a drink of water, helping him out with some housework, or to just have a pleasant conversation. Even through Mr. Jameson’s constant coughing fits, he never once felt that the old man wasn’t listening to him.

Knock, knock. Nobody answered. Knock again. Finally the knob turned. Mr. Jameson was happy to see his young new friend at his door again.

“Michael?” Mr. Jameson asked. “Come in son, come in. Have a seat.”

Michael obliged and sat down on the old leather sofa that sat straight across from the eight-foot bookshelf containing numerous volumes of college-level books and stories. He wished that he could read them, but that wasn’t the reason why he went over there this time.

“I’ve read some of your books.” Michael said with a smile. “They’re really well-written, and I love the writing style in them. I almost had nightmares about Omens.”

“Well thank you Michael.” Mr. Jameson replied with a satisfied look on his face. “I’m glad at least somebody enjoyed them. They didn’t want those types of stories back in the fifties when the only type of writing that was accepted were those talking about prosperous times and whatnot.”

“So they never got published?”

“Lord knows I tried, but every time that I sent something over, they either burned it or gave me a cold rejection letter. It was disappointing, but I didn’t let that stop me from sending more and more stories every year.”

“Why keep trying then if you knew that they were going to reject your stories? It seems counterproductive to me.”

Uh oh. The look on Mr. Jameson’s face seemed to be warning Michael of a lecture about to take place. Just what he needed.

“Did you ever read that one poem I asked you to read?” Mr. Jameson asked as he sat and sunk into his leather chair.

Michael pondered this question. Though he did read a lot of Mr. Jameson’s poetry, he didn’t exactly look at the one entitled “Who Am I?” It didn’t appeal to him like “Darkness and Light” or “In Memoriam” did, so he shook his head.

“Well here,” Mr. Jameson handed him another journal. “it has the same poem in it. It’s on the first page. Go ahead and read it.”

Michael took the journal, opened it up, and sure enough, there was “Who Am I?” in bold letters at the top of the page. He went on to read it. The words were these:

I’m a nobody in this lonely world
No one knows who I truly am,
and they never will

While they may poke and prod at my flesh,
trying to see the inside,
They don’t know me,
for I’m just a speck of dust to them

They don’t know what I like,
what I don’t like or what I truly despise
They don’t know what I feel,
what makes me sad or angry

They don’t know what I do,
my hobbies and my passions being my motives
They don’t know what I see,
the world in which I live in is an interesting place!

Forget all that they say,
for they don’t know any better
Figuring me out is like finding every star in the universe: impossible

Some don’t care,
and don’t even bother to see me,
Though some may feel indifferent,
and some may try hard,
They will never know what’s it’s like to live in my world
But I know who I am,
and that’s what matters!

Who am I? Nobody,
that’s who,
Because I’m only invisible

Michael was stunned by these words. He never expected a poem to have this deep a meaning to it. It was almost as if it were speaking to him though; for he always felt like he wasn’t there in the world, and that nobody understood him in any way. This poem was Michael in words.

“Wow,” The only word that came out of Michael’s mouth at the time. “This…is me. This is how I always feel whenever I’m at school or at home. How did you…?”

“You just seemed like that type of kid.” Mr. Jameson replied. “So I gave you a poem that shows who you were. I knew that something was troubling you the moment I laid my eye on you. I always had a talent for guessing people, and it never once failed me. That poem has a lesson in it though: never let anybody get to you just because they don’t know who you are. You’re you, and that’s that. That’s what kept me going for so many years before I decided to stop writing. It wasn’t that those publishers discouraged me, it was because I lost my touch with stories.”

Michael didn’t argue this time. He listened to Mr. Jameson’s lecture, and it actually stuck with him. There was nothing he could argue about with this lesson. He actually enjoyed it. He learned something important about himself with that poem, and Mr. Jameson put that learning experience into perspective for him.

“Thanks, Mr. Jameson.” Michael said to him with the brightest smile. “Thanks for putting things in perspective for me. I enjoy our time together now.”

Mr. Jameson smiled, and then received a big hug from Michael while still sitting on that leather chair of his. This made him feel happy. It was like receiving a hug from his own flesh and blood. He returned the gesture, and felt instant gratification inside.

Then he started coughing. This time, he couldn’t stop. Michael asked what was wrong, but Mr. Jameson couldn’t reply through the barking noise coming from his throat. After he grabbed a handkerchief and coughed into it, he reached out for the phone and collapsed.

Michael began yelling frantically, not knowing what to do. He called his parents for help, and they soon called 911 for Mr. Jameson.

When the paramedics arrived, Mr. Jameson wasn’t breathing anymore, but he still had a pulse, which was a good thing for the moment. As they took him away, Michael noticed the handkerchief on the floor and picked it up. There was a patch of blood on it. Mr. Jameson had been sick for a while.

He can’t die yet, thought Michael. He just can’t die this soon!



V

Mr. Jameson passed away on July 21, 2009, of choking on his own blood. His lungs were badly scarred, and he had large tumors due to lung cancer. He had been a smoker for thirty years before he decided to quit, the doctors explained to Michael and his family. The cancer was still present however, and he hadn’t had problems with it until recently. Michael noticed the problem first, but Mr. Jameson passed it off as only the remnants of a bad cold.

The guilt was horrible for Michael.

The funeral service was two days later. Mr. Jameson’s family arrived from all corners of the country to mourn the loss of their father or brother. They wept openly and bitterly at the sight of the open casket. Mr. Jameson’s cold face gave a stare of peace and tranquility, which caused people to think that he died a happy man. Odd, considering the way he died wasn’t exactly a peaceful way to go. But they supposed he knew that he had it coming from the years of inhaling the air of death.

Michael was the only one who didn’t shed a tear on the outside. He simply couldn’t. This man had taught him to be himself over the course of one summer, which was a thing in of itself for most teens. He just couldn’t grasp it in his mind that the wise old man was gone just like that. He almost wanted to give up because of this. He felt no reason to go on living anymore without the old man’s guidance and wisdom to get him through another horrible Day of Judgment and sadness.

But something told him that it wasn’t all that bad. Even though he only knew Mr. Jameson for a short while, he somehow felt as if he’d known him all his life. The way he smiled, the way he talked, the insight he shared with him…it reminded him of his late grandfather.

Perhaps Mr. Jameson was his fallen grandfather reincarnated? Michael took this into consideration, and concluded that it was a likely possibility, even though he personally didn’t believe in reincarnation. Mr. Jameson died younger than his grandpa did, but they looked almost exactly the same to Michael. They even talked the same, even though Mr. Jameson was less gravely-sounding. Michael liked knowing this little fact very much.

Maybe this was the closure he needed with his grandfather. Maybe this was the thing he needed to do in order to make himself feel better about what had happened. The guilt was falling off of his shoulders, and Michael felt as if he was suddenly completely relaxed and less tense than he used to be.

He’d resented old people for the longest time, and now he had a deeper respect for them again. Mr. Jameson’s passing didn’t make him feel more melancholy…it actually made him feel satisfied with himself.

He taught me a lot, and I didn’t even thank him. Michael thought about this for a bit. As people began to leave and his parents were calling him, Michael kneeled to the level of Edwin Jameson’s tombstone, stared at it, smiled and said “Thank you…for everything.”

During the long car ride home, he remembered the poem. He recited it in his head over and over again. It made sense to him after a while. Mr. Jameson was exactly like Michael back during his days. Times may have been different, but the feeling was still the same. Mr. Jameson, however, didn’t accept the fact that he was alone, and decided to write about his thoughts and feelings during that tumultuous time in his life. Michael decided to do the same thing, and began writing some poems down on the nearby notepad in the next seat over to him.

A poem about sadness? Or a poem about loss? Maybe he would write one of each, given the circumstances.

The cottage was left abandoned, but every single bit of furniture had been taken out. The old man’s family wanted to keep at least something to remember him by. They took everything, even the fridge, with them to their respective homes.

Everything, of course, except for the stockpile of books and stories. That was left to Michael. It was agreed that since Michael was the only one to see those books, it was logical to leave them with him as remembrance. Michael couldn’t have been more pleased about that decision. He re-read most of the books and short stories, and he used them as inspiration to write some of his own stories. He sent his in to be published. He’s still waiting for those phone calls back. He didn’t care if they rejected him or not. What mattered was that now he had a hobby.

Michael now has a new lease on life. His friends noticed a brighter, more confident person to hang out with, his girlfriend was treated to many gifts and surprises, which made her happy, and Michael’s parents could finally say they were proud of him to the public. Everything was finally normal within everyone’s lives now that Michael was more cheerful and excited to be living.

Mr. Jameson was the best thing to happen to him, they all thought.

But one thing still hasn’t changed: Michael still hangs out on the roof of the empty cottage reflecting on the day. Sometimes though, he would reflect on his time with Mr. Jameson. In his mind, he could see all the good times they had shared over the summer, and all the stories about his past that he shared with him. He ended each day with a picture in his mind of Mr. Jameson’s face, which later morphed into his grandfather’s face. He smiled when he saw this.

With that, he was now satisfied completely.