The Editor

Julian waited until the splash echoed up from the black water below.

It was a faint sound. Disappointing, really. He had expected something louder.

He stood by the railing for a moment, listening. No sirens. No screams. Just the wind and the traffic beginning to stir in the distance.

Julian reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the cheap, drugstore notebook.

He ran his thumb over the cover. It was damp from the rain.

He opened it to the first page.

*Property of Elias Thorne.*

*If found, please return to...*

Julian smiled. It was a cruel, thin expression that didn't reach his eyes.

"Elias Thorne," Julian murmured. "Terrible name for a poet. Too soft."

He gripped the page near the binding. With a sharp, practiced motion, he ripped the title page out.

He crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it over the railing. He watched it flutter down into the fog, chasing the boy who had written it.

Julian tucked the notebook back into his pocket. He patted it affectionately.

The poems were good. Rough, sure, but good. With a little editing, a little polish, they would be brilliant. He could already see the cover art.

*Nocturnes from the Bridge*, by Julian Vane.

It had a nice ring to it.

He turned up the collar of his coat against the dawn chill. He turned his back on the railing and began to walk toward the city lights, whistling a low, cheerful tune.

Elias was dead. The art was alive.

And really, Julian thought as he headed toward the subway, he had done the kid a favor. He had given him an ending.